aiBRAHY 

OF  THE 

U N I VLR5  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 
Received  by  bequest  from 
Albert  H.  Lybyer 
Professor  of  History 
University  of  Illinois 
1916-1949 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


f 


https://archive.org/details/beautifulthoughtOOtalm 


EAUTIFUL 

H O U G H T S: 

BY  . 

THE  BEST  AUTHORS; 

A COLLECTION 

OF 

THE  BEST  THINGS 

IN  THE 

LITERATURE  OF  LOVE,  HOME  and  RELIGION 

TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED* 

BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES  OF  THE  WRITERS. 
BeautifulliJ  Illustrated  bi]  the  Best  American  ai)d  European  Artists. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

T,  DeWITT  TALMAGE.  D.  D. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

S.  I.  Bell  & Co. 


Copyrighted  1888. 
JOHN  BLAKELY. 


!7>> i 


ft 


MAKING  HOME  HAPPY:  A WORD  WITH  THE  READER, 


EW  books  are  published  nowadays  that  appeal  to  the  old-time 
sentiments  of  the  fireside  or  garner  with  generous  hand  the 
perfect  jewels  of  the  old-time  Home.  In  the  persistent 
struggle  to  furnish  the  people  with  only  that  which  is  new, 
that  which  is  old  and  standard  in  our  best  literature  is  over- 
looked. Certainly  this  is  a fault.  We  produce  much  to-day 
in  poetry,  but  countless  jewels  of  other  ages  are  to-day 
unmatched. 

For  this  reason,  in  this  collection,  the  compiler  has  made  long 
explorations  in  the  lines  of  song  so  that  the  reader  might  have  a 
daily  feast  of  reason  that  shall  be  appropriate  to  every  changing 
season  of  the  year,  appropriate  to  every  shifting  humor  of  the  heart  , 
appropriate  to  every  joy  or  sorrow.  The  old  favorites,  the  stand- 
ard poems  of  centuries  are  here  elbowed  by  the  latest  sighing  of  the 
Muses.  No  poem  has  been  included  merely  for  its  author’s  name,  no 
poem  has  been  rejected  because  its  author  is  unknown ; a desire  to  fur- 
nish a complete  treasury  for  the  fireside — a book  that  shall  gladden  the 
home  on  each  and  all  occasions  of  Life’s  changing  round — has  dictated1 
the  compiler’s  preferences.  And  in  the  arrangement,  while  marked' 
divisions  have  not  been  made,  the  reader  will  find  the  poems  classed 
according  to  sentiments.  The  music  has  been  chosen  to  round  out  the  general 
design  of  presenting  the  public  with  a complete  home-book. 

No  home  is  a real  home  without  the  divine  influences  of  poetry  and  music — musk;,. 


That  softer  on  the  spirit  lies 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes ; 


and  poetry,  which  carries  the  mind  beyond  and  above  the  beaten,  dusty,  weary 
walks  of  ordinary  life,  to  lift  it  into  a pure  element  and  to  breathe  into  it  more 

(5) 


b 


PREFACE. 


profound  and  generous  emotion.  It  reveals  to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings 
back  the  freshness  of  youthful  feeling,  revives  the  relish  of  simple  pleasures,  keeps 
unquenched  the  enthusiasm  which  warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being,  strengthens 
our  love  of  our  fellow-man,  and  through  the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions  helps 
faith  to  lay  hold  of  future  life. 

The  world  is  full  of  poetry ; the  air  is  living  with  its  spirit ; and  the  waves  dance 
to  the  music  of  its  melodies,  and  sparkle  in  its  brightness. 

In  this  spirit,  then,  this  compilation  of  Perfect  Jewels  from  many  books  of  many 
lands  is  submitted  in  the  hope  that  it  may  carry  sunshine  wherever  it  penetrates. 

The  Publishers. 


FULL-PAGE  ENGRMINGS. 


Artist.  Page. 


Presentation  Plate — Illuminated  . . 

. Loag. 

If  Music  be  the  Food  of  Love — Steel  Engraving 

• 

• 

. Lewis.  Frontispiece. 

Rock  of  Ages 

. Brown. 

39 

The  Dead  House 

52 

How  Sweet  the  Chime  of  the  Sabbath  Bells  . 

• 

• 

. 

• 

. Bryant. 

63 

Childhood’s  Happy  Days 

o • 

• 

• 

• 

. Ward. 

65 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 

. Millais. 

79 

I Looked  Upon  the  Rotting  Sea 

84 

And  When  the  Summer  Sun  Shone  Hot 

• 

• 

• 

. 

. Hennesey. 

89 

List  to  Nature’s  Teachings  .... 

• • 

♦ 

• 

. Brown. 

99 

Three  Friends  of  Temperance  .... 

. Landseer. 

105 

As  I Came  Up  the  Valley  .... 

1 13 

Grim-Visaged  War 

. Hans  Makart. 

11 7 

At  Nightfall  by  the  Firelight’s  Cheer 

• • 

• 

. Silso. 

121 

That  Airy  Army  of  Invisible  Heroes  . 

. Neauvelles. 

137 

It  Had  Rained  in  the  Night  .... 

145 

Hail  to  Thee,  Blithe  Spirit  ..... 

. Specht. 

153 

See,  Safe  Through  Shoal  and  Rock 

159 

And  Out  of  the  Houses  the  Rats  Came  Tumbling  . 

. 

. 

. 

. Smith. 

167 

Cheeks  of  Rose  Untouched  by  Art  . 

173 

’Tis  but  a Step  Down  Yonder  Lane 

. Hennesey. 

1 77 

Awake 

• 

. Millais. 

181 

The  Snow  Storm 

. Smillie. 

192 

I Bring  Fresh  Showers  for  Thirsting  Flowers 

. Delioge. 

199 

Beyond  the  North,  Where  Ural  Hills  From  Polar  Tempests  Run 

. Petroutsky. 

211 

Fitz- James  and  Roderick  Dhu  .... 

. Vigner. 

232 

The  Winter  is  Blossoming  in  Snow  Flowers  . 

. Ferguson. 

239 

Rest,  This  is  the  Year’s  Bower  .... 

, Herrick. 

241 

An  Old  Farm-House  With  Meadows  Wide 

. Roberts. 

243 

The  Day  Dies  Slowly  in  the  Western  Sky 

• 

. 

• 

• 

. Hertzog. 

253 

Sweet  Auburn,  Loveliest  Village  of  the  Plain 

• • 

• 

• 

. Black. 

257 

Say  Thou  Lov’st  While  Thou  Live 

. Williams. 

275 

Nightfall  

295 

MermAid  of  Margate 

Wood. 

3i7 

Folding  the  Flocks 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

. Brown. 

347 

Sunset 

• 

• 

• 

• 

. Brown. 

353 

The  Gambols  of  Children 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

. Brown. 

355 

Music,  Oh,  How  Faint,  How  Weak  . . . 

. Bryant. 

373 

I Cannot  Sing  the  Old  Songs  .... 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

. Closs. 

438 

We’re  Walking  Down  the  Homestead  Lane  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

. Finch. 

446 

Power  of  Love 

(7) 


Initial  P . . 

Flowers  and  Butterflies 

Head-piece  

Initial  F 

Tail-piece,  Landscape 

Head-piece,  Illustrations  ..... 

Head-piece,  Contents  

tf  Introduction 

“ Initial  T 

Tail-piece,  Nets  and  Fisherman’s  Implements 

Initial  T,  Belfry 

The  Lowing  Herd  Winds  Slowly  O’er  the  Lea  . 

The  Epitaph 

Initial  S .......  . 

Tail-piece,  Birds  in  Nest 

The  Universal  Prayer  ..... 

Initial  I,  Fan  

Rock  of  Ages  ....... 

The  Holy  Mother  and  Infant  Jesus  ... 
Initial  L,  Ruined  Tower  ...... 

Tail-piece,  Winter  ...... 

Linger  Not  Long,  Home  is  Not  Home  Without  Thae 
Oh ! Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud  ? . 
The  Dead-House  ...... 

From  the  Mountain  Top  ..... 

The  First  Te  Deum  ...... 

Tail-piece,  Spider-Web 

Initial  O,  Church  Tower  . . . . • 

How  Sweet  the  Chime  of  the  Sabbath  Bells  . 

Initial  M . 

Tail-piece,  Autumn 

Mother  and  Child 

If  I Had  Known — Oh,  Loyal  Heart  . . . 

Initial  T .......  • 

Initial  A 


ARTIST. 

PACB 

. Bryant. 

3 

Reistle. 

4 

. Devine. 

5 

Brown . 

5 

. Brown. 

6 

Brown. 

7 

13 

Mackellar. 

23 

. Cattermole. 

23 

Brown. 

32 

33 

Millais. 

33 

Williams. 

34 

Little. 

35 

. Smith. 

35 

Dore. 

36 

. Cattermole. 

38 

Dore. 

39 

. Raphael. 

40 

Cattermole. 

42 

. Edwards. 

43 

Wilkie. 

44 

. Schell. 

46 

Lummis. 

52 

. Harris. 

54 

Williams. 

56 

. Cattermole. 

59 

Cattermole. 

61 

. Bryant. 

63 

Balch. 

64 

. Brown. 

66 

Meisonnier. 

67 

. Sch?nidi. 

69 

70 

. Allen. 
(9) 

7i 

IO 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


How  Dear  to  my  Heart  are  the  Scenes  of  my  Childhood 

Initial  A,  Portcullis 

Initial  O ........  . 

From  His  Lips 

Tail-piece,  Marine 

Initial  M 

When  Chill  November’s  Wintry  Blast .... 
Initial  O ......... 

“I 

“ D 

Abide  with  me,  Fast  Falls  the  Eventide  ... 
We  are  Two  Travellers,  Roger  and  I . . 

Tail-piece,  Birds  ........ 

Initial  O,  Marine 

Tail-piece,  Snowstorm 

ii  ii 

Initial  W,  Woods 

“ “ Sparrows 

Tail-piece,  Bird  . 

The  Night  has  a Thousand  Eyes  .... 

Initial  A,  Portcullis 

Initial  N,  Lilies 

Here  is  the  Unadulterated  Ale  of  Father  Ada*i  . . 

And  Children  Coming  Home  from  School  . . 

At  Length  his  Lonely  Cot  Appears  in  View  . 

His  Clean  Hearthstone  ...  . 

Initial,  Birds  

She  Walks  in  Beauty 

Initial  T,  Castle- Hall 

Break,  Break,  Break  ...... 

Initial  A 

In  a Kingdom  by  the  Sea 

Initial  N,  Wreath  Laurel 

Tail-piece,  Flag  ....... 

I Steal  by  Lawns  and  Grassy  Plots  .... 

Initial  H,  Armor  

And  a Sacred  Thing  is  the  Old  Arm-Chair  . . • 

Initial  L,  Tree 

Balneatrix,  Side-piece  ....... 

Hear  the  Mellow  Wedding-Bells  . . . . 

The  Mackerel  Boats  Sailed  Slowly  Out  . • 

Initial  I . 

“ T,  Tower  and  Parapet 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 

Initial  O,  Doorknocker 

“A 

Tail-piece,  Flowers  ....... 

Initial  A,  Birds  and  Flowers 

A Street  in  Ghent  ..*.... 

Initial  A,  Ornate 

Initial  O,  Marine . 


ARTIST.  PAGE. 


Herzog. 

72 

Cattermole. 

74 

Cattermole. 

76 

Guido. 

77 

Richards. 

87 

Balch. 

88 

Snowden. 

9i 

Cattermole. 

92 

Johnson. 

97 

Cattermole. 

98 

Robinson. 

IOI 

Brown. 

102 

Finch. 

103 

Romaine. 

104 

Schell. 

107 

Brown. 

108 

Winch . 

109 

James. 

109 

James. 

109 

Saaks. 

11 5 

Cattermole. 

120 

Cattermole. 

122 

Meyer  v.  Bremen. 

I23 

Morris. 

125 

Reid. 

126 

Reid. 

127 

Ramsey. 

128 

Cassell. 

129 

Freeman. 

I3I 

Hamilton. 

131 

Barber. 

132 

Hamilton. 

'33 

Cattermole. 

134 

Cattermole. 

134 

Lewis. 

135 

Cattermole. 

136 

Henry. 

GJ 

00 

Cattermole. 

139 

Alma  Tadema* 

139 

Fellows. 

140 

Richards. 

141 

Cattermole. 

142 

Cattemnole. 

144 

146 

Cattermole. 

146 

Cattermole. 

148 

Robinson. 

150 

Cattermole. 

151 

Bildung. 

154 

Cattermole. 

157 

Cattermole. 

158 

ILL  USTRA  TIONS. 


II 


0 Little  Feet,  that  such  Long  Years 

ARTIST.  PAGE. 

Initial  0,  Sprite  

161 

There  is  an  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest  .... 

163 

Initial  The,  Ornate 

165 

“ H,  Armor 

165 

“ H,  Evening 

169. 

And  Four-and-Twenty  Happy  Boys  . . . 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Brown. 

170 

In  a Lonesome  Wood  with  Heaps  of  Leaves  , 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Moran. 

171 

I Ne’er  Could  any  Lustre  see 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Clarke. 

173 

The  Dearest  Spot  on  Earth  to  Me  . . • 

175 

Initial  T,  Ornate 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Cattermole. 

178 

Tired  Nature’s  Sweet  Restorer,  Balmy  Sleep  . 

• • 

• 

• . Millais. 

181 

Initial  D,  Antique 

182 

Where  did  You  Come  from,  Baby  Dear?  . . 

183 

The  Alhambra  by  Moonlight 

184 

Initial  0,  Ornate  ...  . . . . 

185 

Whither,  Midst  Falling  Dew  . . . • • 

186 

Landscape  ........ 

188 

Tail-piece,  Rainbow  ...... 

189 

Boy  with  Vegetables  ...... 

190 

He  is  Gone  on  the  Mountains  . . . ^ 

191 

My  Heart’s  in  the  Highlands  . . • • 

192 

The  Day  is  Cold,  and  Dark  and  Dreary  . . . 

194 

The  Sea  ! the  Sea ! the  Open  Sea  . . . 

I9S 

On  the  Banks  of  a River  was  Seated  one  Day  . 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Miller. 

1 97 

For  There  at  the  Casement  Above  . . . 

201 

Pleasantly  Rose  One  Morn  the  Sun  ... 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Bittle. 

202 

Tail-piece,  Meadow  and  Sheep  .... 

205 

Initial,  Boy  in  Snowstorm  . • • • • 

206 

Tail-piece,  Birds  in  a Storm  .... 

209 

In  the  Hollow  Tree  in  the  Old  Gray  Tower  • • 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Vogle. 

215 

Of  Youth  and  Home,  and  that  Sweet  Time  . • 

216 

I’ve  Worked  in  the  Field  All  Day  .... 

• • 

• 

• 

. . Schell. 

217 

Tail-piece,  Ships  . 

218 

The  Wonderful  “ One-Horse  Shay  ” . . . 

219 

Above  the  Pines  the  Moon  was  Slowly  Drifting  . 

. . 

• 

• 

• '.  Bierstadt. 

222 

Oh  ! that  Rain ! 

224 

And  the  Lovely,  Laughing  Water  . . . 

226 

Initial  M ........ 

228 

Children  Playing  ...... 

229 

Initial  G 

• • 

• 

• 

..  . Cattermole. 

231 

Fitz  James  and  Roderick  Dhu  .... 

232 

The  Ice  was  Here,  the  Ice  was  There  . . • 

233 

He  was  Ragged,  Cold  and  Hungry  . . . 

• 

• 

• 

. . Brown. 

235 

Initial  M 

236 

Those  Happy,  Happy  Elf 

237 

There’s  a Magical  Isle  . . . • . . 

244 

Initial  D 

245 

“ S 

246 

Tail-piece,  Woodland  Scene  . • • • 

247 

Moonlight  in  the  Harbor  • • • • • 

248 

12 


ILLUSTRATIONS, . 


Go  for  a Sail  this  Mornin’  ? . . . 

Launching  the  Life-Boat  . . . 

The  Day  Dies  Slowly  .... 

Head-piece,  Deserted  Village  . 

And  Rest  ’Neath  the  Wild  Grape  Arbors 
And  Then  the  Lover  . . . . 

O,  my  Luve’s  Like  a Red,  Red  Rose  . 
May  in  the  Woods  . . • . 

Tail-piece,  Marine  .... 

Little  Gretchen  . 

Flowers  that  Deck  the  Beauteous  Earth 
In  Dakota  ...... 

O Happy  Ship,  to  Rise  and  Dip  . . 

Tail-piece,  Evening  . 

The  Heathen  Chinee  is  Peculiar  . 

Boys  Nutting  . 

Sleeping  Near  the  Withered  Nosegay  . 
Driving  Home  the  Cows  . . • 

The  Flower  will  Bloom  Another  Year 

Initial  A,  Marine 

Tail-piece,  Duck  .... 
Head-piece,  Harvest  Moon  . . 

Initial  O,  Harp 

Tail-piece,  Landscape  . . . . 

The  Old  Miil 

Tail-piece,  Tropical  . . . . 

Its  Ivory  Halls  are  Bonnie  . . . 

Initial,  Flowers  . . . . . 

Tail-piece,  Bridge  .... 

“ Bird  Singing  . . . . 

Initial  A,  Censer  .... 

Tail-piece 

Tail-piece,  Marine  .... 

“ Cows  Bathing  . . , 

Not  enny  Shanghi  for  Me  . . . 

Tail-piece 

Dow’s  Flat 

Tail-piece,  Winter 

Three  Black  Crows  .... 

Baby- Bye 

Tail-piece,  Chickens  .... 

Morning 

From  an  Eagle  in  His  Flight  • 

Portrait  of  Bryant  . . . . . 

The  Lighthouse  . ... 

Head-piece,  Poodle  . . . . 

Initial  G 

Tenting  on  the  Old  Camp-Ground  • . 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother  . . . 

Flowers  and  Butterflies  .... 
Tail-piece,  Landscape  .... 
Tail-piece,  Niagara  . . . . 


ARTIST. 

PAGE. 

Burt. 

250 

251 

Hertzog. 

253 

. Fenn. 

255 

Hart. 

260 

. Cooper. 

261 

Hirst. 

266 

267 

Lyman. 

268 

. Krauseman. 

269 

Abbott. 

271 

. Moran. 

272 

Chase. 

273 

. Owens. 

274 

Burlingame. 

276 

. Smith. 

277 

Millais. 

280 

. Turner. 

282 

Cantwell. 

283 

. Chase. 

290 

Nicholls. 

291 

. Harrison. 

292 

Gaul. 

294 

. Sontag. 

209 

Weber. 

3°° 

. Shoi'tlejf. 

302 

Eddy. 

303 

. Hare. 

304 

Janvier. 

306 

. Maynard, 

3°7 

McCord. 

308 

308 

Belmer. 

31 5 

. Hamilton. 

3i9 

Caper. 

322 

324 

Hart. 

325 

. Winner. 

332 

Penford. 

333 

. Vantrump. 

336 

Jones. 

342 

. Moran. 

343 

Host. 

348 

. Millet. 

349 

Senat. 

350 

. Jones. 

356 

Cattermole . 

360 

• Lippincott „ 

397 

Clarke. 

5io 

. Brown. 

Donart. 

533 

. Hamilton. 

538 

AUTHOR. 

Proca* Wm.  Denovan . 

Preface  Wm.  R.  Balch. 

Introduction 71  De  Witt  Talmage,  D.  D. 


PROSE. 


Address  at  the  Dedication  of  Gettysburg  Cemetery Abraham  Lincoln . 

A Golden  Sunset G.  W.  Cable. 

An  Axe  to  Grind B.  Franklin. 

A New  Decalogue Thos.  Jefferson. 

A Rill  from  the  Town  Pump Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

A Sermon  Without  a Text Louisa  M.  Alcott. 

A Tribute  to  our  Honored  Dead Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

Await  the  Issue T.  Carlyle. 

Books Wm.  Ellery  Channing. 

Charity St.  Paul. 

Crime  Revealed  by  Conscience Daniel  Webster. 

Death  of  Little  Nell Charles  Dickens. 

Duties  and  Responsibilities  of  Woman Gail  Hamilton. 

Eva’s  Death Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

Eulogy  on  Daniel  Webster Rufus  Choate. 

Extract  from  Autobiography Frederick  Douglass. 

Getting  the  Right  Start. John  G.  Holland. 


Happy  Thoughts. .Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

Humility . . Washington  Allston. 


PAG*. 

3 

5 

23 


178 

284 

200 

214 

122 

246 

136 

27<* 

175 

45 

168 

1 48 
3°4 

48 

362 

359 

206 

228 

185 


Immortality Philip  Schaff,  D.  D.  42 

Jack  and  Gill ...... Joseph  Dennie.  309 


Last  Moments  of  Mozart Anonymous.  188 

Letters  to  Fanners Josh  Billings.  342 


Mother.  Home  and  Heaven Anonymous. 

Mrs.  Caudle  Wants  Spring  Clothe* Douglas  Jerrold. 

My  Christmas  Tree Charles  Dickens. 

(13) 


64 

220 

1 10 


CONTENTS. 


H 


AUTHOR. 

Nature  of  True  Eloquence Daniel  Webster. 

No  Religion  Without  Mysteries Chateaubriand. 

Not  Enny  Shanghi  For  Me. Josh  Billings. 

On  Toleration Jeremy  Taylor. 

Oration  on  Garfield James  G.  Blaine. 

Our  Banner Chas.  H.  Spurgeon. 

Retribution Abraham  Lincoln. 


Salvation  and  Morality 
Speech  and  Silence 

St.  Paul  at  Athens 

Sympathy  


. . David  Swing. 
Thomas  Carlyle. 

Milman. 

. . . .Anonymous. 


Tact  and  Talent 

The  Candid  Man 

The  Cause  of  Temperance 

The  Alhambra  by  Moonlight. . . 

The  Brotherhood  of  Man 

The  Borrowed  Umbrella 

The  Changing  Year 

The  True  Use  of  Wealth 

The  Knocking  in  Macbeth .... 

The  Shakers 

The  Drummer 

The  Light  of  Knowledge 

Toussaint  L’Ouverture 

True  Glory 

Truth 

Travelling . 

’True  Politeness 

The  Righteous  Never  Forsaken 

The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh 

The  Symbol  and  the  Reality..., 


Lotidon  “Atlas.” 

Lord  Lytton. 

Gough. 

. . Washington  Lrving. 
. . George  Washington. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

Buskin. 

De  Quincy. 

Artemus  Ward. 

. . . .“  Texas  Siftings.” 

Elihu  Burritt. 

Wendell  Phillips. 

Charles  Sumner. 

W.  A list  on. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

Chatham. 

Anonymous. 

Robert  Collyer. 

Phillips  Brooks. 


Woman’s  Rights 


POETRY. 


Artemus  Ward. 


A Psalm  of  Life 

An  Epigram  on  the  Blessedness  of  Divine  Love 

Across  the  River 

A Common  Thought 

A Dying  Hymn 

A Prayer 

Abide  With  Me 

A Mighty  Fortress  I.  Our  God.  (From  the  German  of  Martin  Luther.) 

Hedge 

At  the  Fireside 

Afar  in  the  Desert 

Annabel  Lee 

A Thing  of  Beauty  is  a Joy  Forever 

-A  Picture 


Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

John  Byrom. 

Lucy  Larcojn. 

Henry  Timrod. 

Alice  Cary. 

Anonymous. 

Henry  F.  Lyte. 

Translation  of  Frederic  Henry 


.........  John  B.  Long. 

Thomas  Pringle. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

John  Keats. 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 


PAGH. 

196 

254 

322 

147 

155 

364 

164 

357 

270 

74 

7i 

130 

92 

104 

184 

214 

223 

238 

262 

296 

327 

338 

1 18 
142 

3°° 

198 

179 

173 

58 

361 

366 

334 


35 

41 

47 

53 

73 

73 

101 

120 

121 

132 

133 
169 
191 


CONTESTS. 


15 


A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea. 
A Maiden’s  Ideal  of  a Husband. 

A Farewell 

A Love-Letter  From  Dakota. . . . 

A Child  Asleep 

Answer  to  a Child’s  Question. . . 

After  the  Rain 

A Picture 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 

An  Alliterative  Poem 

A Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave 

A Ditty 

A Modest  Wit 

An  Invocation 

A Song  of  the  Mole 

Auf  Wiedersehen 

Alone  with  God 


AUTHOR.  PAG*. 

Allan  Cunningham.  195 

Henry  Carey.  196 

. Charles  Kingsley.  237 

W.  W.  Fink.  272 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  280 
, . . . Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  280 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  299 

Anonymous.  298 

Leigh  Hunt.  306 

Anonymous.  307 

Epes  Sargent.  307 

Sir  Philip  Sidney.  331 

Anonymous.  337 

“ Chambers'  Journal .”  350 

Joel  Chandler  Harris.  354 

John  Russell  Lowell.  367 

A nonymous.  371 


Beautiful  Snow 

Break,  Break,  Break 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine 

Bairnies,  Cuddle  Doon 

Bijah’s  Story 

Bedouin  Love  Song 

Before  the  Rain 

Better  Things 

Banty  Tim 

Baby  Bye 

Blessed  Are  They  That  Mourn 

Beauty’s  Danger 

Bachelor’s  Hall 

Bill  Mason’s  Bride 


.James  Watson. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Charles  Wolfe. 

. . . Caroline  E.  Norton. 

Alex.  Anderson. 

Charles  M.  Lewis. 

Bayard  Taylor. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

George  McDonald. 

John  Hay. 

Theodore  Tilton. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

Shakespeare. 

John  Finley. 

.. . F.  Bret  Harte. 


78 

*31 

134 

157 

176 

235 

242 

290 

293 

321 

336 

349 

349 

356 

369 


Christ’s  Presence  in  the  House 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-Night. . 

Coronach 

Children  of  the  Sun’s  First  Glancing 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 

Casabianca. 

Country  Sleighing 

Consciousness  of  Guilt 

Chastity 


. . . .James  Freeman  Clarke. 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Schiller. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Felicia  Hemans. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare. 


73 

174 

191 

271 

281 

294 

335 

349 

351 


Dreams  and  Realities Phoebe  Cary.  57 

Day  is  Dying Marian  Evans  Lewes  Cross  ( George  Eliot).  98 

Wes  Irae John  A.  Dix.  120 

Dickens  in  Camp F.  Bret  Harte.  222 

Drifting Thomas  Buchanan  Read.  273 

Driving  Home  the  Cows Kate  Putnam  Osgood.  282 

Dow’s  Flat,  1856 F.  Bret  Harte.  325 


1 6 CONTENTS . 


AUTHOR. 

December  and  May Thomas  Hood. 

Difference  of  Degree Shakespeare. 

Drop,  Drop  Slow  Tears Phineas  Fletcher. 

Elegy  Written  in  a Country  Churchyard Thomas  A.  Gray. 

Evensong Byron. 

Excelsior Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

Exile  of  the  Acadians Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

Evening  Hymn Anonymous. 

Enchantment Anonymous. 

Endurance Elizabeth  Akers. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a Mad  Dog Goldsmith. 


For  Love’s  Sake 

From  the  Mountain  Top 

For  a’  That  and  a’  That 

“ Five  Twices  ” 

Fitz-James  and  Roderick  Dhu 

'Fairy  Song ,, 

Faith  and  Hope 

Faithless  Sally  Brown 

Forgiveness 

Farragut 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 

From  Afar 

Folding  the  Flocks 


Margaret  J.  Preston. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

Robert  Burns. 

Rev.  J.  K.  Nutt. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

John  Keats. 

Rembrandt  Peale. 

Thomas  Hood. 

Anonymous. 

Chas.  DeKay. 

Thomas  Hood. 

. . . Philip  Bourke  Mansion. 
. . . Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


Give  Me  Three  Grains  of  Corn,  Mother 

Gone  With  a Handsomer  Man 

God’s  Acre 

Go  to  Thy  Rest 


Amelia  Blandford  Edwards. 

Will  M.  Carleton. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

. . .Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


Hark,  The  Glad  Sound 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind. . 

Herve  Riel 

Home  Songs 

Hohenlinden 

Home 

Hiawatha 

He  Giveth  his  Beloved  Sleep. 
Homeward 


. . . .Philip  Doddridge. 

Henry  Timrod. 

....  Robert  Browning. 

Anonymous. 

....  Thomas  Campbell. 
... . Oliver  Goldsmith. 
Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

Anonymous. 

Anonymous. 


I Would  not  Live  Alway. . . . 

In  Suffering 

(I  Remember,  I Remember.  . . 
JI  Ne’er  Could  any  Lustre  see 
incident  of  the  French  Camp 

It  Snows 

It  Kindles  all  my  Soul 

In 'the  Harbor 

I Wonder 

I Doubt  It 

Indirection 


Wm.  Aug.  Muhlenberg , D.  D. 

Anonymous. 

...  Thomas  Hood. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 

Robert  Broivning. 

Sarah  Josepha  Hale. 

From  the  Latin  of  Casimir  of  Poland. 

George  R.  Sitns. 

Anonymous. 

Anonymous. 

....  Richard  Realf. 


rAGE. 

341 

349> 

35<> 

33 

40 

163 
202: 
264 
302 
3°6 
35& 

51 

54 

164 

182 
232 

283 

289. 

3H 

294 

308 

326 

344 
346 

68 

217 

299 

299 

41 

68 

158 

1 75 

196 

197 
226 
236 
253 

37 

55 
169 

!73 

183 

190 

245 

250 

290 

340 

345 


CONTENTS. 


7 


AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

Imagination Shakespeare.  349 

Insubstantiality  of  Dreams Shakespeare.  349 

Innocence Shakespeare . 340 

Joan  of  Arc’s  Farewell  to  Home Schiller.  281 

Jim Bret  Harte.  318 

Jennie  Kissed  Me Leigh  Hunt.  332 

John  Jankin’s  Sermon Anonymous.  369 


Kissing  her  Hair 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  267 


Life’s  Cost 

Lyric  of  Action 

London  Churches 

Light 

Lady  Clara  Vere  De  Vere 

Love  Lightens  Labor 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant . . 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long 

Love’s  Autumn 

Lambs  at  Play  

Little  Nan 

Little  Nan,  A Sequel 


yane  Ellice  Hopkins. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

Richard  Monkton  Milnes. 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Anonymous. 

Helen  Selina  Sheridan , Lady  Dufferin. 

Anonymous. 

Paul  H.  Hayne. 

Robert  Bloomfield. 

G.  IV.  Thomas. 

A.  IV.  Dodge. 


43 

64 

97 

11S 

*39 

144 

176 

294 

293 

35^ 

366 

367 


Mother  and  Child 

My  Mother’s  Bible 

Maud  Muller. . 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn. . . . 

Memory 

Millionaire  and  Barefoot  Boy. 
My  Heart’s  in  the  Highlands 

Make  Believe 

Metrical  Feet 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  Part . 

Mercy 

My  Angel 

Mermaid  of  Margate 

Milking  Time 

Morning. 

Marco  Bozzaris 

Misunderstood 

Mignon 


. William  Gilmore  Simms. 

George  P.  A/orris. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Robert  Burns. 

James  A.  Garfield. 

G.  T.  Lanig/in. 

Robert  Burns. 

Alice  Cary. 

.Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

Byron. 

Shakespeare. 

Anonymous. 

Thomas  Hood. 

Philip  Morse. 

James  Beattie. 

Fitz-  Greene  Halleck. 

Miriam  Kenyon. 

Goethe. 


67 

7°' 

88 

90 

190- 

192 

22c. 

245 

260- 

264; 

279 

316 

3i?> 

343 

349 

357 

360 


Nearer  My  God  to  Thee. 

No  Sects  in  Heaven 

Nine  Graves  in  Edinboro’ 

“ Night  Thoughts  ” 

No ! 

No  Baby  in  the  House. . . 

New  Year’s  Eve 

Now  and  Afterwards .... 

Nightfall 

Nocturnal  Sketch 


Sarah  Flower  Adams. 

Anonymous. 

Irwin  Russell. 

Edward  Young. 

Thomas  Hood. 

Clara  G.  Dolliver. 

Mary  Howitt. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 

W.  W.  Ellsworth. 

Thomas  Hood. 


41; 

60 

IOC 

i8(? 

187 

>97 

269 

289 

295 

337 


2 


(3 


CONTENTS. 


Oh  ! Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud?. 

Old  Grimes 

Oh,  Sing  Once  More  Those  Joy-Provoking  Strains 

O Lay  Thy  Hand  in  Mine,  Dear! 

On  the  Picture  of  an  Infant 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 

Ocean 

On  Receipt  of  his  Mother’s  Picture 

Of  Prayer 

Only  the  Clothes  She  Wore 

O,  My  Luve’s  Like  a Red,  Red  Rose 

Ode  to  Melancholy 

Observations  of  Rev.  Gabe  Tucker 


AUTHOR. 

William  Knox. 

Albert  G.  Greene. 

. Anonymous. 

Gerald  Massey. 

Leonidas  of  Alexandria  ( Greek ). 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

Robert  Pollok. 

. William  Cowper. 

Anonymous. 

. > N.  G.  Shepherd. 

Robert  Burns. 

Thomas  Hood. 

. . . J.  A.  Macon. 


PAGE. 

46 

135 

175 

185 

185 

187 

200 

208 

231 

252 

266 

292 

341 


Praise Anonymous. 

Prose  and  Song John  Stirling. 

Please  to  Ring  the  Belle  Hood. 

Patience  and  Cowardice Shakespeare. 

Pat’s  Love  Letter Anonymous. 


37 

216 

294 

349 

370 


Rock  of  Ages 

Resignation 

Regret 

Rebecca’s  Hymn 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 
Rhymes  for  Hard  Times. 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells 

Respect  for  the  World 

Reputation 

Repentance 

Rory  O’ More 

Rest 


Anony?nous. 

. . Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

A nonymous. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

Rev.  N.  McLeod. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare. 

Samuel  Lover. 

Mary  S.  Lathrop. 


38 

57 

69 

7i 

80 

303 

342 

349 

349 

35i 

358 

365 


Softly  Woo  Away  Her  Breath 

Shun  the  Bowl 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 

Somewhere. 

Sorrows  of  Werther 

Sir  John  Franklin 

Sentinel  Songs 

Seven  Ages  of  Man 

Song  : On  May  Morning. . . . 

Sweet,  Be  Not  Proud 

Soliloquy  on  Immortality .... 

Sneezing 

Superfluity 

Sheridan’s  Ride 

Sunset 

Sally  Simpkins’  Lament 


Barry  Cornwall. 

Eliza  H.  Barker. 

....  f I^ord  Byron. 

Anonymous. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

George  H.  Boker. 

Adam  J.  Ryan. 

Shakespeare. 

John  Milton. 

Robert  Herrick. 

Joseph  Addison. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Shakespeare. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelly. 

Thomas  Hood. 


37 

106 

129 

192 

205 

233 

249 

261 

267 

290 

3°8 

326 

349 

351 

352 
359 


The  Lost  Chord 

The  Universal  Prayer 


Adelaide  Ann  Proctor. 
Alexander  Pope. 


35 

36 


CONTENTS. 


19 


The  Last  Leaf 

The  Death-Bed 

The  Wife  to  Her  Husband 

Twilight  at  Sea  

The  Hour  of  Death 

’Twill  Not  be  Long 

The  Dead  House 

There  is  No  Death 

The  Burial  of  Moses 

The  First  Te  Deum 

The  Brahman’s  Lesson 

The  Creeds  of  the  Bells. 

The  Music  of  Life 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib. . . 

The  Maiden’s  Prayer 

The  laying  Christian  to  His  Soul. . 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket 

The  Ministry  of  Jesus 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers. ....... 

The  Land  o’  the  Leal 

The  Good  Great  Man 

The  Eagle 

Thy  Will  Be  Done 

Thanatopsis 

The  Vagabonds 

The  Closing  Scene 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 

The  May  Queen 

The  Field  of  Waterloo 

The  Closing  Year 

The  Village  Blacksmith 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 

The  Rosary  of  My  Tears.  ........ 

The  Mistletoe  Bough 

The  Brook 

The  Old  Arm  Chair. 

The  Bells 

The  Long  Voyage 

To  a Mountain  Daisy 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 

The  Picket-Guard 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 

The  Gain  of  Adversity 

To  a Skylark 

The  Ride  From  Ghent  to  Aix 

The  Little  Children 

The  Baby 

The  Raven. 

To  Althea  from  Prison 

There  is  an  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest, 
The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. . . . ... 


AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  38 

Thomas  Hood.  41 

Anonymous.  44 

Amelia  B.  Welby.  44 

Felicia  Hemans.  45 

Anonymous.  47 

James  Russell  Lowell.  52 

Lord  Lytton.  53 

Cecil  Francis  Alexander.  55 

M.  J.  Preston.  56 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  61 

George  W.  Bungay.  62 

Edwin  Arnold.  62 

Lord  Byron.  68 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis.  70 

Alexander  Pope.  73 

Samuel  Woodworth.  73 

Edward  Bickersteth , D.  D.,  LL.  D.  77 

William  Cullen  Bryant.  79 

Carolina , Baroness  Nairne.  79 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  79 

Alfred  Tennyson.  90 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  97 

William  Cullen  Bryant.  98 

J.  T.  Trowbridge.  102 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read.  107 

Alfred  Tennyson.  108 

A If  red  Ten  nyson . 1 1 2 

Lord  Byron.  116 

George  Denison  Prentice.  1 19 

Henry  W.  Longfellow.  125 

Robert  Burns.  126 

Abram  J.  Ryan.  128 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly.  1 3 1 

Alfred  Tennyson.  134 

Eliza  Cook.  138 

Edgar  Allen  Poe.  140 

Sam  Slick,  Jr.  141 

Robert  Burns.  143 

Thomas  Hood.  1 46 

Ethelin  Eliot  Beers.  1 5 1 

Robert  Burns.  1 5 1 

Lydia  Huntly  Sigourney.  15 1 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  152 

. Robert  Browning.  154 

Henry  W.  Longfellow.  160 

A nonymous.  1 60 

Edgar  Allen  Poe.  161 

Col.  Richard  Lovelace.  1 62 

William  B.  Tappan.  163 

Robert  Browning.  165 


20 


CONTENTS. 


The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram ........ 

The  Dearest  Spot  on  Earth  is  Home . . 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 

The  Baby 

The  Gifts  of  God 

To  a Water  Fowl 

The  Master’s  Touch 

*The  Snow  Storm 

The  Rainy  Day 

The  Sea 

The  River  and  the  Tide 

The  Clouds 

Tom  Bowling 

The  House’s  Darling 

The  Devil’s  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck 

The  Owl 

Those  Evening  Bells  

The  Wonderful  “ One-Hoss  Shay  ”... 

The  Soldier’s  Dream 

The  Lost  Doll 

The  Drunkard’s  Daughter 

The  Sexton 

To  My  Infant  Son 

Two  Pictures 

The  Magical  Isle 

The  Gambler’s  Wife 

The  Sunset  City 

The  Face  Against  the  Pane 

The  Deserted  Village 

The  Woods  of  Tennessee 

The  Hero  of  Sugar  Pine 

The  Pauper’s  Death-Bed 

The  Inchcape  Rock 

The  Heathen  Chinee 

The  Boys 

The  Wandering  Jew 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

Their  Angels 

The  Angel’s  Whisper 

The  Passions 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp 

The  Old  Mill 

To  Thomas  Moore 

The  Palace  of  the  King 

'The  Art  of  Book-Keeping 

The  Spelling-Bee  at  Angel’s 

The  Razor  Seller 

To  a Louse 

The  Three  Black  Crows 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe 

The  American  Flag 


AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

Thomas  Hood.  1 70 

W.  S.  Wrighton.  175 

Thomas  Hood.  178 

George  Macdonald.  1 83 

George  Herbert.  185 

• . William  Cullen  Bryant.  186 

Horatius  Bonar.  192 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  193 

Henry  W.  Longfellow.  194 

Anonymous.  1 95 

Anonymous.  197 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  198 

Charles  Dibdin.  200 

John  James  Piatt.  205 

Thomas  Aird.  210 

Bryan  W.  Proctor  (Barry  Cornwall).  215 

Thomas  Moore.  216 

O.  W.  Holmes.  2 1 9 

Thomas  Campbell.  225 

Charles  Kingsley.  230 

Anonymous.  231 

Park  Benjamin.  236 

Thomas  Hood.  237 

A nonymous.  243 

Anonymous.  244 

Dr.  Coates.  . 245 

Henry  Sylvester  Cornwall.  247 

Thomas  Baily  Aldrich.  248 

Goldsmith.  255 

Anonymous.  260 

‘ Anonymous.  266 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles.  266 

Robert  Southey.  268 

F.  Bret  Harte.  276 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  277 

Lizzie  Smith.  283 

Charles  Lamb.  283 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney.  289 

Samuel  Lover.  290 

Collins.  29 1 

Thomas  Moore.  294 

Thomas  Dunn  English.  300 

Lord  Byron.  301 

William  Mitchell.  302 

Thomas  Hood.  315 

F.  Bret  Harte.  320 

Dr.  John  Wolcott.  33 1 

Robert  Burns.  332 

John  Byrom.  333 

William  Schwenk  Gilbert.  34 1 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  344 


CONTENTS. 


21 


The  Beauties  of  English  Orthography 

The  Day  is  Done 

The  General  Chorus 

The  Sabbath  Morning 

The  Light  House 

The  Marseillaise . 

The  Lore-Lei 

Theology  in  the  Quarters 

The  Irish  Eclipse 

The  Low-Backed  Car 

The  Puzzled  Census-Taker 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 

The  Children 

The  Old  Ways  and  the  New 

Twenty  Years  Ago 

The  Irish  Woman’s  Lament 

The  Model  Church 

The  Indian  Chieftain 

The  Great  Bell  Roland 


AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

Anonymous.  346 

. . . H.  W.  Longfellow.  348 
“ Fraser's  Magazine .”  348 

...Dr.  John  Leyden.  349 

Thomas  Moore.  350 

Rouget  De  L isle.  351 

Heinrich  Heine.  352 

J.  A.  Macon.  354 

Irwin  Russell.  354 

Samuel  Lover.  359 

John  G.  Saxe.  360 

Longfellow.  361 

Charles  Dickens.  363 

John  H.  Yates.  365 

Anonymous.  368 

Anonymous.  368 

John  H.  Yates.  370 

........ .Anonymous.  371 

Theodore  Tilton.  372 


Uncle  Remus’s  Revival  Hymn Joel  Chandler  Harris.  71 

Uncle  Mellick  Dines  With  His  Master J . R.  Eggleston.  324 


Who  Can  Paint  Like  Nature? Thomson. 

Watchman,  What  of  the  Night? Anonymous. 

Woman’s  Will John  Godfrey  Saxe. 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree „ George  Perkins  Morris. 

When  Sparrows  Build Jean  Ingelow. 

Write  Them  a Letter  To-night  ”. Anonymous. 

Wind  and  Rain Richard  H.  Stoddard. 

What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say? Tennyson. 

Where  Are  You  Going,  My  Pretty  Maid? Anonymous. 

Widow  Machree Samuel  Lover. 

Widow  Malone Charles  Lever. 


4i 

56 

79 

109 

109 

182 

194 

209 

215 

333 

340 


Yarn  of  the  “ Nancy  Bell” 


W.  S.  Gilbert.  364 


(22) 


INTRODUCTION. 


ture. 


PUBLISHERS  wish  me  to  stand  in  the  vesti- 
bule of  this  book  and  open  the  door  for  the  people. 
Those  who  enter  these  portals  will  find  three 
rooms  grandly  furnished,  a picture-gallery,  a 
music-hall,  and  a library.  The  pictures  are  by 
the  best  artists,  the  songs  by  the  best  composers, 
the  poetry  and  prose  by  the  best  authors.  Pass 
right  in  without  stopping  at  the  door  to  talk  with 
the  janitor  who  lifts  the  latch  of  pearl  and  swings 
wide  open  the  gate  of  “ Perfect  Jewels/' 
Three  great  wants  are  met  by 
this  book.  First  of  all,  I am 
charmed  with  its  portable  Lux- 
embourg,; its  Louvre  in  minia- 

We  all  need  pictures,  and  get  them  we  will  to  glorify  our  dwellings. 

We  will  gather  up  the  wedding  fees  which  ministers  generally  give  to  their  wives, 
but  always  borrow  the  next  morning,  and  purchase  one  well-executed  painting. 
But  all  the  rest  you  can  buy  with  less  money  than  you  spend  for  a one  year’s 

segars.  In  our  house  we  will  have  pictures,  such  as  you  can  cut  out  of  the  weekly 

journal  or  the  penny  newspaper — home-scenes,  with  a streak  of  nature  in  them. 
Never  mind : you  may  have  your  walls  hung  with  pictures  of  fine  ladies  and 
troubadours  and  boar-hunts  that  cost  five  hundred  dollars  each.  On  mine  I shall 
have  the  engraving  of  “ Boys  Coasting,”  “ Workman  Asleep  and  Mischievous  Lad 
Tickling  his  Ear  with  a Straw,”  “ Grandmother  Knitting  ” — child  with  a towel  about 
his  neck  going  through  the  tortures  of  having  his  hair  cut. 

Some  artists  seem  to  think  that  nothing  smaller  than  a mountain  or  a shipwreck 
is  worthy  of  their  genius  and  would  not  stoop,  like  Rosa  Bonheur,  to  the  study  of 
a dog.  I speak  not  now  of  your  grizzly  cur,  which  seems  to  contain  the  trans- 
migrated spirits  of  a dozen  snappish,  snarling  scolds,  but  such  a dog  as  I once 

owned — honest-eyed,  long,  silken  dew-laps,  no  hypocrisy  in  the  wag  of  his  tail,  play- 
ful if  you  are  playful,  sad  if  you  are  sad.  Such  a dog  never  fails  his  master.  It 
picks  him  out  of  the  snow  when  overcome  by  the  ice-blast;  it  comes  howling 
through  the  darkness  at  approaching  peril,  dashes  in  the  stream  to  bring  ashore 

(23) 


24 


INTRODUCTION. 


your  child  that  is  about  to  sink  the  third  time,  when  the  two  violets  would  never 
again  have  opened  to  the  sun ; lies  on  the  door-mat  with  his  head  between  his  paws 
when  his  master  is  sick  and  gets  upas  the  doctor  comes  out,  hoping  to  go  in 
and  have  another  patting  before  that  hand  is  closed  forever.  His  master  dead,  he 
howls  the  night  long  and  will  not  be  quieted,  and,  when  the  day  of  sepulture  comes, 
walks  under  the  hearse,  head  down,  to  the  grave,  moving  when  the  procession  moves, 
halting  when  the  procession  halts,  until,  with  both  paws  on  the  bank  of  the  up- 
turned sod,  he  stands,  yawning  and  uncomforted  looking,  into  the  opened  place. 
Condolence  for  others,  but  no  word  of  pity  for  him.  The  kennel  will  be  dark  to- 
night. None  to  pet  him  now  and  call  him  with  sharp  whistle  to  the  porch  and  take 
him  up,  cleverly  holding  the  soft  pad  of  the  forefoot.  It  is  nothing  but  a dog.  I 
would  rather  have  a good,  hearty  picture  of  the  loving  Carlo,  who  grieved  himself 
away  because  of  my  protracted  absence  from  home,  and  refused  to  eat  or  drink,  till 
his  wasted  skeleton  was  thrown  into  the  stream  and  he  sank  with  unoffended  but 
imploring  look  to  those  who  would  put  him  out  of  his  misery.  Yes,  I would  rather 
have  a good,  hearty  picture  of  him  than  a whole  houseful  of  Italian  representa- 
tions of  stupid  Abbot  and  fat  Friar.  Pictures  are  chiefly  to  be  admired  for  what 
they  can  make  you  feel  and  think  of.  I have  no  pleasure  in  looking  at  a farm- 
scene  unless  I can  look  right  through  the  canvas  and  hear  the  corn-silk  rustle,  and 
the  calf  bleat,  and  the  horse  neigh,  and  the  hen  cluck.  You  get  a letter  from  a 
friend.  You  care  not  much  for  the  handwriting,  but  for  the  sentiments  expressed. 
So  I look  upon  the  execution  of  a picture  chiefly  as  the  handwriting  by  which  the 
artist  conveys  to  us  and  to  the  eyes  how  the  sea  frothed  at  the  lip,  and  little  Mary 
got  drowsy  among  the  hollyhocks  and  went  to  sleep  with. her  head  on  her  fat  arm 
and  the  back  of  her  hand  lying  in  the  sunlight  laughing  with  five  beautiful  dimples. 
While  with  small  means  we  might  fill  our  homes  with  utmost  suggestiveness  of 
nature,  men  without  taste  will  give  vast  amounts  of  money  for  something  they  call 
the  work  of  one  of  the  great  masters.  Every  little  while  I am  called  into  some- 
body’s parlor  to  see  one  of  these  works  by  the  great  masters.  While  a connoisseur 
can  instantly  detect  the  deception,  there  are  many  people  who  suppose  they  have 
one  of  these  masterpieces,  not  knowing  that  there  is  a Yankee  down  East  whose 
business  it  is  to  take  modern  paintings  and  bake  them  until  they  look  sufficiently 
old  and  then  furnish  them  as  Raphaels,  for  a few  dollars  a dozen.  Remember  that 
pictures  are  a constant  education  to  your  household.  Not  so  much  the  books  your 
children  read  as  the  pictures  they  look  at  will  make  indelible  impression.  I read 
many  books  in  boyhood,  but  my  most  vivid  remembrance  is  of  the  spelling- 
book  pictures — the  boy  in  an  apple-tree  and  the  old  man  telling  him  to  come  down 
or  he  would  use  something  heavier  than  grass,  and  the  bear  that  upset  the  bee-hive. 
In  this  day  of  pictures,  if  you  would  have  your  children  grow  up  with  cheerful  dis- 
position, do  not  cover  your  wall  with  “ St.  Bartholomew’s  Massacre  ” and  the  “ Burn- 
ing of  the  Steamer  Henry  Clay,”  but  set  up  some  happy  scene  like  the  pictures  in 
the  art  gallery  of  “ Perfect  Jewels.” 


INTRODUCTION . 


25 


Next  I am  charmed  with  the  portfolio  of  music  found  in  this  book,  music  con- 
secrated with  the  tears  and  laughter  of  the  last  half  century.  The  world  would  be 
a failure  without  melodious  voice  and  instruments  of  sweet  sound.  If  we  cannot 
afford  a Steinway  Grand,  perhaps  we  can  a guitar ; if  not  a guitar  an  accordion,  and 
that  is  about  the  last  thing  a man  can  have — just  one  is  enough  for  a whole  neigh- 
borhood. Some  time  you  will  happen  to  have  a dull  party.  About  ten  o’clock  every 
one  will  get  talked  out.  The  guests  will  gradually  freeze  to  the  wall,  and  some  one 
in  a state  of  mental  and  physical  exhaustion  will  make  a prophecy  as  to  the  next 
•change  in  the  weather,  and  some  one  will  reply,  “ Indeed  ! ” And  after  a while  to  break . 
up  the  silence  the  hostess  will  go  “Ahem,”  and  some  one  who  has  been  sitting  with 
the  right  foot  over  the  left  will  vary  the  scene  by  putting  the*  left  foot  over  the  right; 
and  having  revolved  his  thumbs  one  way  will  change  to  make  them  go  the  other 
way.  Oh,  then,  for  music,  if  it  is  no  better  than  a jewsharp,  and  some  one  to  sing 
tra-la-la-la-la.  After  screwing  up  our  courage  to  the  sticking-point  we  offer  our  arm 
to  the  performer,  and  after  much  urging  it  is  taken,  and  though  she  cannot  play 
without  notes  and  is  all  out  of  practice,  and  there  is  a dear  little  bruise  on  one  of  the 
fingers  and  added  to  all  a bad  cold,  in  a moment  the  whole  party  are  roused  up, 
jokes  snapping,  tongues  chattering,  and  the  wall-flowers  broken  from  the  trellis  by 
the  swift  sweep  of  the  notes,  “ tra-la-la-la-la.” 

Do  you  tell  me 'that  the  piano  is  nothing  but  a dead  instrument?  Dead!  is  it? 
Its  pulses  flutter  to  the  touch  of  your  fingers.  I have  heard  it  tremble  with  every 
grief,  and  warble  with  every  gladness,  and  groan  with  complete  agony.  In  stirrup 
of  pearl  it  dashes  to  the  cavalry  charge  and  lifts  its  voice  like  a storming  party.  But 
if  you  insist  that  it  has  no  positive  life,  then  I say  that  the  keys  are  the  white  surf 
•of  the  great  sea  of  infinite  harrqony  breaking  on  the  shore  of  the  soul.  Its  wires 
stretching  back  under  the  cover  are  the  wire-bridge  on  which  our  imagination  walks 
but  looks  down  into  the  great  chasms  of  eternity.  There  are  times  when  no  other 
instrument  can  accurately  express  our  feelings.  Perhaps  we  have  had  a rough  time 
in  the  world,  and  friends  have  betrayed  us,  and  our  fortunes  have  failed,  and  we  think 
how  those  who  once  sympathized  with  us  have  taken  up  their  residence  in  the  better 
country,  and  we  gather  around  the  piano,  a few  weather-beaten  and  world-worn 
men,  with  aching  brow  and  disappointed  heart,  ready  at  the  first  touch  of  the  instru- 
ment to  drop  the  tear  as  prophetic  rod  smote  the  rock  into  waters,  and  we  feel  just 
like  being  soothed  by  our  mother  now  dead  and  gone  many  a year,  and  we  sing 
with  broken  voice  and  moist  eye  while  the  instrument  accompanies — 

“ Backward,  turn  backward,  O Time,  in  your  flight. 

Make  me  a child  again  just  for  to-night.” 

This  book  also  pleases  me  for  the  light  and  joy  and  romp  of  life  found  scattered 
through  its  pages.  Let  us  brighten  up  our  homes  with  more  of  the  innocent 
hilarities.  I can  see  no  harm  in  a good  romp.  I will  not  say  how  many  may  join 
each  other  on  the  floor,  nor  how  much  gracefulness  may  be  in  the  step.  There  is 


26 


INTRODUCTION. 


something  beautiful  in  the  scene  of  a dozen  young  people  so  full  of  life  from  head  to 
toe  that  nothing  short  of  a ship-cable  around  the  ankles  and  an  anchor  in  each 
pocket  could  keep  them  still*  We  hail  those  modern  games  which  shake  the  stiff- 
ness and  stupidity  out  of  the  social  circle,  and  teach  our  young  people  that  they  need 
not  go  to  houses  of  dissipation  for  enjoyment  I am  not  making  allusion  here  to- 
the  much  discussed  subject  of  dancing.  The  flowers  of  recreation  do  not  grow  on 
the  verge  of  the  precipice,  but  many  of  them  in  the  very  garden  of  the  Lord.  Some 
winter  we  will  invite  all  our  friends  to  our  house,  the  merchants,  and  mechanics,, 
and  lawyers,  and  doctors,  and  clergymen,  who  are  breaking  down  under  the  anxieties 
of  life,  and  with  us  take  one  good  rousing  tearing-down  game  of  “ blind-man’s-buff.” 
Ah,  that  is  a classic  game  in  my  memory.  Winter  nights  a good  while  ago  when 
our  cousins  had  come  to  spend  the  evening,  and  the  old  people  were  in  the  other 
room,  we  would  set  back  the  chairs  and  blindfold  the  blithest  of  all  the  cousins* 
Away  she  flew  after  us  with  outstretched  arms  while  each  one  hoped  to  be  caught,, 
for  she  did  it  so  beautifully.  But,  alas  ! that  group  shall  come  together  no  more,  no- 
more.  The  old  people  are  not  in  the  next  room.  The  chairs  are  set  back  to  the 
formal  place.  A deeper  blindfolding  has  come  down  upon  the  hazel  eyes  of  her 
who  pursued  us.  With  several  of  them  the  game  of  Jife  is  ended  and  they  have 
gone  to  bed  under  the  willows.  Their  lips  have  taken  the  sacrament  of  the  dust. 
Henceforth  to  me  “ blind-man’s-buff”  is  a suggestive  game,  and  when  I play  it  my 
laughter  shall  be  like  the  gush  of  sunshine,  through  which  there  falls  here  and  there 
the  stray  drop  of  a departed  shower.  We  cannot  afford  to  be  anchorites.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  being  happy  ourselves  unless  we  make  others  happy.  I have  no 
patience  with  people  who  are  never  treated  well.  It  is  because  they  do  not  treat 
others  well.  Do  you  know  why  people  always  treat  flowers  well  ? It  is  because 
flowers  always  treat  us  well.  Why  does  the  orange  blossom  kiss  the  breeze  ? Be- 
cause the  breeze  first  kisses  the  orange  blossom.  Be  kind  to  others  and  others  will 
be  kind  to  you.  If  you  do  not  find  people  in  your  church  or  neighborhood  social, 
it  is  because  you  are  not  social.  There  shall  not  be  on  the  door  of  our  home  a bolt 
of  caste.  We  shall  not  care  about  the  style  of  his  shoes  if  we  know  that  his  feet  have 
never  walked  in  polluted  paths.  We  shall  not  care  whether  the  coat  is  mixed^ 
striped,  or  black,  but  indignant  only  if  we  find  out  that  his  heart  is  as  black  as  his 
coat.  We  shall  not  ask  whether  his  ancestor  danced  with  Queen  Elizabeth  or 
pounded  the  shoe-last ; whether  his  blood  flowed  down  to  him  through  the  golden 
pipe  of  aristocratic  ancestry,  or  whether  he  got  it  out  of  the  common  puddle  from 
which  the  most  of  us  picked  up  our  ancestral  tablets.  I always  feel  sorry  for  a man 
who  has  so  little  character  himself  that  he  has  to  go  back  and  marshal  a lot  of 
ancestral  ghosts  to  make  up  the  deficiency.  I was  one  summer  passing  along  a 
piece  of  low  ground  and  saw  two  tortoises,  a dark  shell  and  a light  shell.  They  did 
not  know  I was  there  and  consequently  were  not  interrupted  in  the  conversation. 
“ Get  out  of  the  way,”  said  light  shell.  “ Why  ? ” said  dark  shell.  “ Oh,”  said  the 
light  shell,  “I  am  none  of  your  common  turtles.  Do  you  seethe  color  of  my  shell? 


INTRODUCTION. 


2 7 


I was  not  born  like  you  in  this  low  ground,  but  up  yonder  in  that  higher  ditch. 
My  father  had  the  letters  G.  W.  on  his  back  cut  by  the  jack-knife  of  George  Wash- 
ington.” Then  dark  tortoise  lost  his  patience  and  said,  “ Light  tortoise,  you  had 
better  shut  up  your  shell.  The  ditch  that  you  were  born  in  was  a little  higher  up 
than  mine,  but  we  are  both  the  children  of  the  mud.”  I threw  a stone  to  break  up 
this  war  of  caste,  and  instantly  light  shell  and  dark  shell  slunk  into  the  same  puddle. 

This  book  also  pleases  me  because  of  its  purity  throughout  and  its  fitness  for  the 
home-circle.  One  of  the  curses  of  the  age  is  depraved  literature. 

There  is  a vast  number  of  books  and  newspapers  printed  and  published  which 
ought  never  to  see  the  light.  They  are  filled  with  a pestilence  that  makes  the  land 
swelter  with  a moral  epidemic.  The  literature  of  a nation  decides  the  fate  of  a nation. 
Good  books,  good  morals ; bad  books,  bad  morals.  I begin  with  the  lowest  of  all 
the  literature ; that  which  does  not  even  pretend  to  be  respectable — from  cover  to 
cover  a blotch  of  leprosy.  There  are  many  whose  entire  business  it  is  to  dispose 
of  this  kind  of  literature.  They  display  it  before  the  school-boy  on  his  way  home. 
They  get  the  catalogues  of  colleges  and  young  ladies’  seminaries,  take  the  names  and 
the  post-office  addresses,  and  send  their  advertisements  and  their  circulars  and  their 
pamphlets  and  their  books  to  every  one  of  them.  The  president  of  one  of  the  finest 
young  ladies’  seminaries  on  the  Atlantic  coast  being  absent  one  day,  one  of  these 
miscreants  came  in  and  secured  a catalogue.  The  president  returning  and  hearing 
of  it,  had  his  fears  excited,  and  reported  the  case  to  official  authority.  For  two 
weeks  that  man  was  hunted,  and  he  was  hunted  down,  and  in  his  possession  was 
found  not  only  the  catalogue  of  that  institution,  but  the  catalogues  of  fourteen  col- 
leges, and  in  eight  of  these  he  had  done  the  damning  work  already.  In  the  posses- 
sion of  these  dealers  in  impure  literature  were  found  nine  hundred  thousand  names 
and  post-office  addresses,  to  whom  it  was  thought  it  might  be  profitable  to  send 
these  corrupt  things. 

In  the  year  1873  there  were  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  establishments  engaged  in 
publishing  salacious  literature.  From  one  publishing  house  there  went  out  twenty 
different  styles  of  corrupt  books.  Although  twenty-four  tons  of  bad  literature  have 
been  destroyed  by  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice,  still  there  is  enough  of  it 
left  in  this  country  to  bring  down  upon  us  the  thunderbolts  of  an  incensed  God.  What 
has  been  very  remarkable  is  the  fact  that  more  of  those  publishers  of  impure  literature 
lived  in  the  city  of  Brooklyn  than  any  other  city — lived  here,  did  business  in  New  York, 
had  their  factories,  some  on  this  side  of  the  river,  some  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
but  they  dared  to  have  their  residences  in  this  the  city  of  churches.  All  of  them 
now  are  driven  out,  or  for  the  most  part.  These  vultures  will  alight  in  other  fields, 
and  they  must  be  pursued  and  exterminated  from  Christendom.  In  the  year  1868 
the  field  had  become  so  great  in  this  country  that  the  Congress  of  the  United  States 
passed  a law  forbidding  the  transmission  of  impure  literature  through  the  United 
States  mails ; but  there  were  large  loops  in  that  law  through  which  criminals  might 
crawl  out,  and  the  law  was  a dead  failure — that  law  of  1868.  But  in  1873  another 


28 


INTRODUCTION. 


law  was  passed  by  the  Congress  of  the  United  States  against  the  transmission  of 
corrupt  literature  through  the  mails — a grand  law,  a potent  law,  a Christian  law — 
and  under  the  law  multitudes  of  these  scoundrels  have  been  arrested,  their  property 
confiscated,  and  they  themselves  thrown  into  the  penitentiaries,  where  they  belonged. 
How  are  we  to  war  against  this  corrupt  literature  ? First  of  all,  by  the  prompt  and 
inexorable  execution  of  the  law.  Let  all  good  postmasters  and  United  States 
district  attorneys  and  detectives  and  reformers  concert  in  their  action  to  stop  this 
plague. 

When  Sir  Rowland  Hill  spent  his  life  in  trying  to  secure  cheap  postage  not  only  for 
England,  but  for  all  the  world,  and  to  open  the  blessings  of  the  post-office  to  all  honest 
business,  and  to  all  messages  of  charity,  kindness  and  affection  for  all  healthful  inter- 
communication, he  did  not  mean  to  make  vice  easy,  or  to  fill  the  mail-bags  of  the  United 
States  with  the  scabs  of  such  a leprosy.  It  ought  not  to  be  in  the  power  of  every  bad 
man  who  can  raise  a one-cent  stamp  for  a circular  or  a two-cent  stamp  for  a letter  to 
blast  a man  or  destroy  a home.  I was  glad  when  I saw  how  Jay  Gould  pounced  upon 
a culprit  who  was  desecrating  our  magnificent  post-office  system.  Because  the  cul- 
prit lived  on  Fifth  avenue  instead  of  Elm  street  only  made  the  matter  more  outrageous. 
The  New  York  post-office  never  did  a better  work  than  when  it  detailed  fifty  postmen 
to  watch  the  letter-boxes,  and  the  police  department  never  did  a better  work  than  when 
they  detailed  fifty  detectives  to  make  summary  arrests.  The  postal  service  of  this 
country  must  be  clean,  and  we  must  all  understand  that  the  swift  retributions  of  the 
United  States  Government  hover  over  every  violation  of  the  letter-box.  There  are 
thousands  of  men  and  women  in  this  country — some  for  personal  gain,  some  through 
innate  depravity,  some  through  a spirit  of  revenge — who  wish  to  use  this  great  avenue 
of  convenience  and  intelligence  for  purposes  revengeful  and  diabolic.  Wake  up  the 
law.  Wake  up  all  its  penalties.  Let  every  court-room  on  this  subject  be  a Sinai 
thunderous  and  aflame.  Let  the  convicted  offenders  be  sent  for  a full  term  to  Sing 
Sing  or  Auburn,  and  hurl  that  governor  from  his  chair  who  shall  dare  to  pardon 
before  the  expiration  of  the  sentence. 

I am  not  writing  about  what  cannot  be  done.  I am  writing  now  about  what  is 
being  done.  A great  many  printing-presses  that  gave  themselves  entirely  to  the 
publication  of  bad  literature  have  been  stopped,  or  have  gone  into  a business  less 
obnoxious.  Those  of  us  who  have  been  on  the  rail-trains  have  noticed  a great 
change  in  the  last  few  months  and  the  last  year  or  two.  Why  have  nearly  all  those 
indecent  periodicals  been  kept  off  the  rail-trains  for  some  time  back  ? Who  effected 
it  ? These  societies  for  the  purification  of  railroad  literature  gave  warning  to  the 
publishers,  and  warning  to  railroad  companies,  and  warning  to  conductors,  and 
warning  to  newsboys,  to  keep  the  infernal  stuff  off  the  trains.  Cleveland,  Ann  Arbor, 
Rock  Island,  and  other  cities  have  successfully  prohibited  the  most  of  that  literature 
even  from  going  on  the  news-stands.  Terror  has  seized  upon  the  publishers  and 
the  dealers  in  impure  literature  from  the  fact  that  over  six  hundred  arrests  have  been 
made,  and  the  aggregate  time  for  which  the  convicted  have  been  sentenced  to  prison 


INTRODUCTION. 


29. 


is  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and  from  the  fact  that  over  one  million  three 
hundred  thousand  of  their  circulars  have  been  destroyed,  and  the  business  is  not  as 
profitable  as  it  used  to  be.  How  have  so  many  of  the  news-stands  of  our  great  cities 
been  purified  ? How  has  so  much  of  this  iniquity  been  balked  ? By  moral  suasion  ? 
Oh,  no.  You  might  as  well  go  into  a jungle  of  the  East  Indies  and  pat  a cobra  on 
the  neck,  and  with  profound  argument  try  to  persuade  it  that  it  is  morally  wrong  to 
bite  and  to  sting  and  to  poison  anything.  The  only  answer  to  your  judgment  would 
be  an  uplifted  head  and  a hiss  and  a sharp  reeking  tooth  stuck  into  your  arteries. 
The  only  argument  for  a cobra  is  a shot-gun,  and  the  only  argument  for  these  dealers 
in  impure  literature  is  the  clutch  of  the  police  and  bean  soup  in  a penitentiary.  The 
law,  the  law  I invoke  to  consummate  the  work  so  grandly  begun. 

Another  way  in  which  we  are  to  drive  back  this  plague  of  bad  books  is,  as  I 
have  already  indicated,  by  occupying  the  ground  by  healthful  literature.  I do  not 
mean  to  say  that  all  the  books  and  newspapers  in  our  families  ought  to  be  religious 
books  and  newspapers,  or  that  every  song  ought  to  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  “ Old 
Hundred.”  I have  no  sympathy  with  the  attempt  to  make  the  young  old;  I would 
rather  join  in  a crusade  to  keep  the  young  young.  Boyhood  and  girlhood  must 
not  be  abbreviated.  But  there  are  good  books,  good  histories,  good  biographies, 
good  works  of  fiction,  good  books  of  all  styles  with  which  we  are  to  fill  the  minds 
of  the  young,  so  that  there  will  be  no  more  room  for  chaff  in  a bushel  measure  which 
is  already  filled  with  Michigan  wheat.  Why  are  fifty  per  cent,  of  the  criminals  in 
the  jails  and  penitentiaries  of  the  United  States  to-day  under  twenty-one  years  of  age? 
Many  of  them  are  under  seventeen,  under  sixteen,  under  fifteen,  under  fourteen, 
under  thirteen. 

Walk  along  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  Tombs  prison  in  New  York  and  look  for 
yourselves.  Bad-books,  bad  newspapers  bewitched  them  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  the  cradle.  Beware  of  all  those  books  which  make  the  road  that  ends  in  perdi- 
tion seem  to  end  in  paradise.  Do  not  glorify  the  dirk  and  the  pistol.  Do  not  call 
the  desperado  brave  or  the  libertine  gallant.  Teach  our  young  people  that  if  they 
go  down  into  the  swamps  and  marshes  to  watch  the  jack-o’-lanterns  dance  on  the 
decay  and  rottenness  they  will  catch  malaria  and  death.  “ Oh  ! ” says  some  one,  “ I 
am  a business  man,  and  I have  no  time  to  examine  what  my  children  read.  I have 
no  time  to  inspect  the  books  that  come  into  my  household.”  If  your  children  were 
threatened  with  typhoid  fever  would  you  have  time  to  go  for  the  doctor?  Would 
you  have  time  to  go  to  the  funeral  ? In  the  presence  of  my  God  I warn  you  of  the 
fact  that  your  children  are  threatened  with  moral  and  spiritual  typhoid,  and  that  un- 
less the  thing  be  stopped  it  will  be  to  them  funeral  of  body,  funeral  of  mind,  funeral 
of  soul.  Three  funerals  in  one  day.  My  word  is  to  young  people : Do  not  touch, 
do  not  borrow,  do  not  buy  a corrupt  book.  A book  will  decide  a man’s  destiny  for 
good  or  for  evil.  The  book  you  read  yesterday  may  have  decided  you  for  time 
and  for  eternity,  or  it  may  be  a book  that  may  come  into  your  possession  to-mor- 
row. A good  book — who  can  exaggerate  its  power?  Benjamin  Franklin  said  that 


30 


INTRODUCTION. 


his  reading  of  Cotton  Mather’s  “ Essays  to  Do  Good  ” in  childhood  gave  him  holy 
aspirations  for  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  George  Law,  the  millionaire,  declared  that  a 
biography  he  read  in  childhood  gave  him  all  his  subsequent  prosperity.  Oh,  the 
power  of  a good  book  ! But,  alas ! for  the  influence  of  a bad  book.  John  Angel 
James,  than  whom  England  never  had  a holier  minister,  stood  in  his  pulpit  at  Bir- 
mingham and  said  : “ Twenty-five  years  ago  a lad  loaned  to  me  an  infamous  book. 
He  would  loan  it  only  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  I gave  it  back ; but  that  book  has, 
haunted  me  like  a spectre  ever  since.  I have,  in  agony  of  soul,  on  my  knees  before 
God,  prayed  that  he  would  obliterate  from  my  soul  the  memory  of  it ; but  I shall 
carry  the  damage  of  it  until  the  day  of  my  death.”  The  assassin  of  Sir  William 
Russell  declared  that  he  got  the  inspiration  for  his  crime  by  reading  what  was  then 
a new  and  popular  novel,  “Jack  Sheppard.”  Homer’s  “ Iliad  ” made  Alexander 
the  warrior.  Alexander  said  so.  The  story  of  Alexander  made  Julius  Caesar  and 
Charles  XII.  both  men  of  blood.  Have -you  in  your  pocket  or  in  your  trunk  or  in 
your  desk  at  business  a bad  book,  a bad  pamphlet?  In  God’s  name  I warn  you  to 
destroy  it.  We  must  also  have  a word  about  a style  of  pictorials  doing  a tremen- 
dous work  for  death.  You  find  these  death-warrants  on  all  the  streets.  For  a good, 
healthful  picture  we  have  great  admiration.  What  a good  author  may  take  four 
hundred  pages  to  present,  a good  engraver  could  present  on  the  half  side  of  a pic- 
torial. Costly  paintings  are  the  aristocracy  of  art ; engraving  is  the  democracy  of  art. 
The  best  part  of  a picture  that  cost  $10,000  you  may  buy  for  ten  cents.  I say  the 
best  part.  So  we  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  multiplication  of  pictures.  It  is  the  in- 
tense, it  is  the  quick  way  of  presenting  the  truth.  A man  never  gets  over  hi's  love 
for  pictures.  The  little  child  is  entranced  with  them ; we  all  are  entranced  with 
them.  If  a book  be  presented  to  us  we  first  look  at  the  pictures.  Multiply  them. 
When  the  children  are  gathered  after  the  evening  repast  put  before  them  the  pictures. 
Nail  them  to  the  wall  in  the  nursery — the  pictures.  Put  them  on  the  couch  of  the 
invalid.  Strew  them  all  through  the  railroad  cars  and  steamboat  cabins  to  refresh 
the  travellers.  Gather  pictures  in  your  albums  and  portfolios.  Bless  God  for  pic- 
tures, and  may  they  multiply  all  over  the  earth,  these  messengers  of  knowledge  and 
of  mercy.  But  the  unclean  pictorials  are  doing  a work  vast  for  ruin.  Many  a 
young  man  for  ten  cents  buys  his  everlasting  undoing.  It  poisons  his  soul,  his 
soul  may  poison  ten  other  souls,  they  may  poison  hundreds,  the  hundreds  thousands, 
the  thousands  millions.  It  will  take  the  measuring  line  of  eternity  to  tell  how  far 
out  has  gone  the  influence  of  that  one  unclean  pictorial.  He  may  unroll  it  amid 
the  roaring  mirth  of  his  comrades,  but,  if  they  could  see  the  result  on  that  young 
man’s  heart  and  life,  instead  of  laughing  they  would  weep.  The  queen  of  death 
holds  a banquet  every  night,  and  these  unclean  pictorials  are  the  printed  invitations 
to  the  guests.  Alas  ! that  the  fair  brow  of  American  art  should  be  blotched  with 
this  plague-spot  and  that  philanthropists,  worried  about  lesser  evils,  should  give  so 
little  time  to  this  calamity.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  these  pictures.  Do  not  take 
•the  moral  strychnine  into  your  soul.  Do  not  take  up  this  nest  of  coiling  adders 


INTRODUCTION. 


31 


and  put  it  in  your  pocket.  Do  not  patronize  the  news-stand  that  sells  them.  A 
man  is  no  better  than  the  pictures  he  loves  to  look  at.  I will  give  you  $1,000  re- 
ward for  any  young  man  who  remains  pure  and  yet  has  the  regular  habit  of  buying 
unclean  pictorials — $1,000  reward  for  a specimen.  Satan  sometimes  failing  to  get  a 
soul  by  inducing  him  to  read  a bad  book,  captures  him  by  getting  him  to  look  at  a 
vicious  periodical ! When  Satan  goes  fishing  he  does  not  care  whether  it  is  a long 
line  or  a short  line  if  he  only  hauls  his  victim  in.  We  see  so  many  books  we  do 
not  understand  what  a book  is.  Stand  it  on  end,  measure  the  height  of  it,  the 
depth  of  it,  the  length  of  it,  the  breadth  of  it.  You  cannot  do  it.  Examine  the 
paper  and  estimate  the  progress  made  from  the  time  of  the  impressions  on  clay,  and 
then  on  the  bark  of  trees,  and  from  the  bark  of  trees  to  papyrus,  and  from  papyrus 
to  the  hide  of  wild  beasts,  and  from  the  hide  of  wild  beasts  on  down  until  the 
miracles  of  our  modern  paper  manufactures,  and  then  see  the  paper,  white  and  pure 
as  an  infant’s  soul,  waiting  for  God’s  inscription.  A book ! Examine  the  type  of 
it,  examine  the  printing  of  it,  and  see  the  progress  from  the  time  when  Solon’s  laws 
were  written  on  oak  planks,  and  Hesiod’s  poems  were  written  on  tablets  of  lead, 
and  the  Sinaitic  commands  were  written  on  tables  of  stone,  on  down  to  Hoe’s  per- 
fecting printing-press.  A book ! It  took  all  the  universities  of  the  past,  all  the 
martyr  fires,  all  the  civilizations,  all  the  battles,  all  the  victories,  all  the  defeats,  all 
the  glooms,  all  the  brightness,  all  the  centuries  to  make  it  possible.  A book ! It 
is  the  chorus  of  the  ages,  it  is  the  drawing-room  in  which  kings  and  queens  and 
orators  and  poets  and  historians  and  philosophers  come  out  to  greet  you.  If  I 
worshipped  anything  on  earth  I would  worship  that.  If  I burned  incense  to  any 
idol  I would  build  an  altar  to  that.  Thank  God  for  good  books,  healthful  books, 
inspiring  books,  Christian  books,  books  of  men,  books  of  women,  Book  of  God. 
It  is  with  these  good  books  that  we  are  to  overcome  corrupt  literature.  I depend 
much  for  the  overthrow  of  iniquitous  literature  upon  the  mortality  of  books.  Even 
good  books  have  a hard  struggle  to  live.  Polybius  wrote  forty  works ; only  five 
of  them  left.  Thirty  books  of  Tacitus  have  perished.  Twenty  books  of  Pliny  have 
perished.  Livy  wrote  one  hundred  and  forty  books ; only  thirty-five  of  them  re- 
main. Eschylus  wrote  one  hundred  dramas  ; only  seven  remain.  Euripides  wrote 
over  a hundred ; only  nineteen  remain.  Varro  wrote  the  biographies  of  over  seven 
hundred  great  Romans  ; all  that  wealth  of  biography  has  perished.  If  good  and 
valuable  books  have  such  a struggle  to  live,  what  must  be  the  fate  of  those  that  are 
diseased  and  corrupt  and  blasted  at  the  very  start  ? They  will  die  as  the  frogs  when 
the  Lord  turned  back  the  Egyptian  plague.  The  work  of  improvement  will  go  on 
until  there  will  be  nothing  left  but  good  books,  and  they  will  take  the  supremacy  of 
the  world.  May  you  and  I live  to  see  that  illustrious  day.  Against  every  bad 
pamphlet  send  a good  pamphlet ; against  every  depraved  picture  send  an  innocent 
picture ; against  every  scurrilous  song  send  an  elevating  song ; against  every  bad 
book  send  a good  book,  and  then  it  will  be  as  it  was  in  ancient  Toledo,  where  the 
Toletum  missals  were  kept  by  the  saints  in  six  churches  and  the  sacrilegious 


32 


INTRODUCTION. 


Romans  demanded  that  those  missals  be  destroyed  and  that  the  Roman  missals  be 
substituted,  and  the  war  came  on ; and  I am  glad  to  say  that,  the  whole  matter 
having  been  referred  to  champions,  the  champion  of  the  Toletum  missals  with  one 
blow  brought  down  the  champion  of  the  Roman  missals.  So  it  will  be  in  our  day. 
The  good  literature,  in  its  championship  for  the  truth,  will  bring  down  the  evii 
literature  in  its  championship  for  the  devil.  I feel  tingling  to  the  tips  of  my  fingers 
and  through  all  the  nerves  of  my  body  and  all  the  depths  of  my  soul  a certainty  of 
our  triumph.  Cheer  up,  O men  and  women  who  are  toiling  for  the  purification  of 
society ! Pitch  your  tents  toward  the  sunrising  ! 

T.  De  Witt  Talmage,  D.  D. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


This  poet  was  the  son  of  a London  scrivener,  and  was  born  in  the  British  metropolis  in  1716.  He  died  of  gout  in  1771.  ...He 
Studied  at  Eton  and  Cambridge,  and  was  severe  as  a student.  As  an  author  he  was  indolent.  His  splendid  poetry  leaves  the 
world  to  regret  his  lack  of  productive  industry.  He  was  a man  of  ardent  affections,  of  sincere  piety  and  practical  benevolence. 
The  following  poem  was  written  in  1751. 


HE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of 
parting  day, 

The  lowing  herd  winds 
slowly  o’er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  home- 
ward plods  his  weary 
way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to 
darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering 
landscape  on  the 
sight, 

And  all  the  air  a sol- 
emn stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle 
wheels  his  droning 
flight 

And  drowsy  tinklings 
lull  the  distant  folds : 


Save  that  from  yonder  ivy- mantled  tower, 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wander- 
ing near  her  se- 
cret bower, 

Molest  her  ancient 
solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged 
elms,  that  yew- 
tree’s  shade, 

Where  heaves  the 
turf  in  many  a 
moulderi  n g 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

3 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field ! 

. How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er  gave, 

Await  alike  th’  inevitable  hour — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud  ! impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  memory  o’er 
their  tomb  no 
trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the 
long-drawn  aisle 
and  fretted 
vault, 

The  pealing  an- 
them swells  the 
note  of  praise. 
Can  storied  urn  o» 
animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

(33) 


34 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne’er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton,  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 

Th’  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade : nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscience  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e’en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still,  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelt  by  th’  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e’er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E’en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 

E’en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonored  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate — 


Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

“ Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

“ There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch,. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

“ Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

“ One  morn  I missed  him  on  the  ’customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came — nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

“ The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne : — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.’’ 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown 
Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth,. 

And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a tear, 

He  gained  from  heaven  (’twas  all  he  wished)  a 
friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray. 


THE  LOST  CHORD. 


35 


THE  LOST  CHORD. 

Miss  Proctor  was  the  daughter  of  the  genial  poet  who  wrote 
under  the  pseudonym  of  Barry  Cornwall,  and  described  his  child 
as  that  “golden-tressed  Adelaide.”  The  child  was  born  in 
1825.  Her  naturally  religious  sentiments  eventually  found  full 
play  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  of  which  she  died  a member 
>n  1864. 


It  may  be  that  Death’s  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again  ; 

It  may  be  that  only  in  heaven 
I shall  hear  that  grand  Amen  ! 

Adelaide  Anne  Proctor 


EATED  one  day 
at  the  organ, 
I was  weary  and 
ill  at  ease, 
And  my  fingers 
wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy 
keys. 

I know  not  what 
I was  playing, 
Or  what  I was 
dreaming  of 
then, 

But  I struck  one 
chord  of 
music 

Like  the  sound  of  a great 
Amen ! 

It  flooded  the  crimson  twi- 
light, 

Like  the  close  of  an  angel’s 
psalm, 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered 
spirit 

With  a touch  of  infinite 
calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming 
strife ; 

It  seemed  the  harmonious 
echo 

From  our  discordant  life. 

It  linked  all  perplexed  mean- 
ings 

Into  one  perfect  peace, 

And  trembled  away  into  silence 
As  if  it  were  loath  to  cease. 


I have  sought,  but  I seek  it  vainly, 
That  one  lost  chord  divine, 

That  came  from  the  soul  of  the  organ. 
And  entered  into  mine. 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

ELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

“ Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! ” 

For  the  soul  is  dead  tha^  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real ! life  is  earnest  1 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

“ Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,” 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow. 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brate, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating, 

Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe’er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 

Act — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 


36 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London,  the  son  of  a Roman 
Catholic  linen  draper,  in  1688.  He  very  early  “ lisped  in  num- 
bers,” his  active  and  intentional  life  as  an  author  beginning 
with  his  sixteenth  year.  A constant  state  of  excitement,  added 
to  a career  of  oeaseless  study  and  contemplation,  operating  on  a 
feeble  frame,  hastened  his  death,  which  occurred  in  1744. 

ATHER  of  all,  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime,  adored, 

By  saint,  by  savage  and  by  sage, 
Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord. 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind. 


Yet  gave  me  in  this  dark  estate 
To  see  the  good  from  ill, 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 
Left  free  the  human  will. 


What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 
Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 

This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 
That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 


What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 
Let  me  not  cast  away; 

For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives — 
To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 


Yet  not  to  earth’s  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 


If  I am  right,  thy  grace  impart 
Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 

If  I am  wrong,  O teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I judge  thy  foe. 


Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 
Or  impious  discontent, 

At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 
Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 


I WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 


3 7 


Teach  me  to  feel  another’s  woe, 
To  hide  the  fault  I see ; 

That  mercy  I to  others  show, 
That  mercy  show  to  me. 


I WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 

Job  vii.  16. 

The  writer  of  this  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1796,  and  died 
there  in  1877. 


Mean  though  I am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quickened  by  thy  breath  ; 

Oh  lead  me,  wheresoe’er  I go, 

Through  this  day’s  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot ; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know’st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies — 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise, 

All  nature’s  incense  rise. 

Alexander  Pope. 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 


WOULD  not  live  alway,  live  alway  below  ! 
Oh  no,  I’ll  linger  not  when  bidden  to  go; 
The  days  of  our  pilgrimage  granted  us  here 
Are  enough  for  life’s  woes,  full  enough  for 
its  cheer. 

Would  I shrink  from  the  path  which  the  prophets  of 
God, 

Apostles  and  martyrs  so  joyfully  trod  ? 

Like  a spirit  unblest  o’er  the  earth  would  I roam, 
While  brethren  and  friends  are  all  hastening  home? 


I would  not  live  alway — I ask  not  to  stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o’er  the  way; 
Where,  seeking  for  rest,  we  but  hover  around 
Like  the  patriarch’s  bird,  and  no  resting  is  found; 
Where  hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  its  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night  of  despair, 
And  joy’s  fleeting  angel  ne’er  sheds  a glad  ray 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears  him  away. 


Bryan  Walter  Proctor,  better  known  by  his  pen  name  of 
“Barry  Cornwall,”  was  a native  of  London,  and  born  in  1787. 
He  died  in  1874.  His  piec&  have  the  true  lyrical  ring.  He  was 
the  father  of  Adelaide  Ann  Proctor. 

OFTLY  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  death  ! 

Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  life. 

She  hath  seen  her  happy  day, 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom ; 

Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away, 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom. 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear ! 

Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies,  sweet  love. 

Good  she  was  and  fair  in  youth ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 

And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth ; 

Take  her,  then,  forevermore, 

Forever — evermore. 

Bryan  Walter  Proctor — “ Barry  Cornwall .” 


PRAISE. 

|53|ROM  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 
iSw  Let  the  Creator’s  praise  arise  ; 

WL  Let  the  Redeemer’s  praise  be  sung, 
■*““1  Through  every  land,  by  every  tongue. 

Eternal  are  thy  mercies,  Lord, 

Eternal  truth  attends  thy  word  ; 

Thy  name  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 


I would  not  live  alway,  thus  fettered  by  sin — 
Temptation  without  and  corruption  within; 

In  a moment  of  strength  if  I sever  the  chain, 

Scarce  the  victory  is  mine  ere  I’m  captive  again. 

E’en  the  rapture  of  pardon  is  mingled  with  fears 
And  the  cup  of  thanksgiving  with  penitent  tears, 

The  festival  trump  calls  for  jubilant  songs, 

But  my  spirit  her  own  miserere  prolongs. 

I would  not  live  alway — no,  welcome  the  tomb ! 

Since  Jesus  hath  lain  there  I dread  not  its  gloom; 
Where  he  deigned  to  sleep  I’ll,  too,  bow  my  head, 

All  peaceful  to  slumber  on  that  hallowed  bed  ; 

Then  the  glorious  daybreak  to  follow  that  night, 

The  orient  gleam  of  the  angels  of  light, 

With  their  clarion  call  for  the  sleepers  to  rise 
And  chant  forth  their  matins  away  to  the  skies. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway — away  from  his  God, 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode; 

Where  the  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o’er  the  bright  plains, 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns; 

Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet, 

Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet, 
While  the  songs  of  salvation  exultingly  roll, 

And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul  ? 

That  heavenly  music  ! Hark  ! sweet  in  the  air 
The  “ harps  of  the  harpers”  I hear  ringing  there  ! 
And  see  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of  gold, 

The  King  all  arrayed  in  his  beauty  behold  ! 

Oh,  give  me — oh,  give  me  the  wings  of  a dove 
To  adore  him,  be  near  him,  enrapt  with  his  love : 

I but  wait  for  the  summons,  I list  for  the  word — 
Alleluia!  Amen!  Evermore  with  the  Lord. 

William  Augustus  Muhlenberg,  D.  D. 


CO 


ROCK  OF  AGES. 


8 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

SAW  him  once  be- 
fore, 

As  he  passed  by  the 
door; 

And  again 
The  pavement 
stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o’er 
the  ground 
With  his  cane. 


But  now  he  walks 
the  streets, 

And  he  looks  at  all 
he  meets 
So  forlorn ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 

That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

“ They  are  gone.” 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 
In  their  bloom ; 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a year 
On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 

Poor  old  lady  ! she  is  dead 
Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a Roman  nose, 

And  his  cheek  was  like  a rose 
In  the  snow. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 

Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  time 
Cut  him  down, 

Not  a better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 
Through  the  town. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 

And  it  rests  upon  his  chin, 

Like  a staff ; 

And  a crook  is  in  his  back, 

And  a melancholy  crack 
In  his  laugh. 

I know  it  is  a sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 
At  him  here, 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 

And  the  breeches, — and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 
In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I do  now, 

At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
Where  I cling. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


“ROCK  OF  AGES.” 

OCK  of  ages,  cleft  for  me,” 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung; 
Fell  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue ; 
Sang  as  little  children  sing ; 

Sang  as  sing  the  birds  in  June ; 

Fell  the  words  like  light  leaves  down 
On  the  current  of  the  tune — 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 

“ Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee  ” — 

Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide — ■ 

Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 

And  she  had  no  thought  beside; 

All  the  words  unheedingly 

Fell  from  lips  untouched  by  care, 
Dreaming  not  that  they  might  be 
On  some  other  lips  a prayer — 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me” — 

’Twas  a woman  sung  them  now, 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully, 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 

Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 
Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air ; 

Every  note  with  sorrow  stirred. 

Every  syllable  a prayer — 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me” — 

Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustingly  and  tenderly, 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim- 
“ Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 

Trembling  though  the  voice  and  low, 
Ran  the  sweet  strain  peacefully, 

Like  a river  in  its  flow ; 

Sang  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life’s  thorny  path  have  pressed ; 
Sang  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  behold  the  promised  rest — 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 

“ Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me  ” — 

Sung  above  a coffin  lid ; 

Underneath,  all  restfully, 

All  life’s  joys  and  sorrows  hid ; 
Nevermore,  O storm-tossed  soul ! 

Nevermore  from  wind  or  tide, 
Nevermore  from  billow’s  roll 
Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 

Could  the  sightless,  sunken  eyes, 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hair, 

Could  the  mute  and  stiffened  lips 
Move  again  in  pleading  prayer, 

Still,  aye,  still  the  words  would  b«— 

“ Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.” 


ROCK  OF  AGES 


(39) 


40 


EVENSONG. 


EVENSONG. 

From  "Don  Juan,"  Canto  III. 


VE  MARIA!  blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I 
so  oft 

Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o’er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 

While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 
Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 

And  not  a breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 

And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with 
prayer. 


Ave  Maria  ! ’tis  the  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria  ! ’tis  the  hour  of  love ! 

Ave  Maria ! may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son ’s  above  l 
Ave  Maria ! oh  that  face  so  fair ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove — 

What  though  ’tis  but  a pictured  image  strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  ’tis  too  like. 

Byron^ 


NEARER,  M Y GOD,  TO  THEE. 


41 


NEARER,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEE. 


HARK,  THE  GLAD  SOUND. 


Few  hymns  have  had  such  popularity  as  this,  written  by 
Sarah  Flower  Adams.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Benjamin 
Flower,  editor  of  the  Cambridge  (Eng.)  Intelligencer,  and  was 
born  in  1805.  Her  celebrated  hymn  is  founded  on  Jacob’s 
dream  and  was  published  in  1841,  in  a Unitarian  collection  of 
“Hymns  and  Anthems.”  It  has  been  adopted  by  all  Chris- 
tian sects,  and  translated  into  many  languages.  Mrs.  Adams 
died  in  1849. 

EARER,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

E’en  though  it  be  a cross 
That  raiseth  me ; 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee— - 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though  like  a wanderer. 

The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  comes  over  me. 

My  rest  a stone ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I’d  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  l — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 


The  author  of  this  hymn  was  a Dissenting  minister,  born  in 
London,  1702,  and  after  a career  of  eminence  he  died  at  Lisbon, 
October  27th,  1751.  His  hymns  were  unexcelled  in  their  day 
by  any  of  the  religious  poets. 


|ark 


the  glad  sound  ! the  Saviour  comes. 
The  Saviour  promised  long; 

Let  every  heart  prepare  a throne, 

And  every  voice  a song ! 


He  comes,  the  prisoners  to  release, 

In  Satan’s  bondage  held  ; 

The  gates  of  brass  before  him  burst, 
The  iron  fetters  yield. 

He  comes,  from  thickest  films  of  vice 
To  clear  the  mental  ray, 

And  on  the  eyeballs  of  the  blind 
To  pour  celestial  day. 


He  comes,  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 

And  with  the  treasures  of  his  grace 
To  enrich  the  humble  poor. 


There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  Heaven ; 

All  that  thou  sendest  me 
In  mercy  given ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 
Nearer  to  thee ! 


Our  glad  Hosannas,  Prince  of  Peace, 

Thy  welcome  shall  proclaim, 

And  heaven’s  eternal  arches  ring 
With  thy  beloved  name. 

Phillip  Doddridge. 


Then  with  my  waking  thoughts, 

Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I’ll  raise ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if,  on  joyful  wing, 

Cleaving  the  sky, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot. 

Upward  I’ll  fly — 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Sarah  Flower  Adams. 


AN  EPIGRAM  ON  THE  BLESSEDNESS 
OF  DIVINE  LOVE. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

E watched  her  breathing  through  the  night— 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low — 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  weary  hopes  belied  our  fears. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied ; 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  ; she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

Thomas  Hood- 


AITH,  Hope,  and  Love  were  questioned 
what  they  thought 

Of  future  glory,  which  Religion  taught, 
Now,  Faith  believed  it  firmly  to  be  true, 
And  Hope  expected  so  to  find  it  too  ; 

Love  answered,  smiling,  with  a conscious  glow, 
Believe  ? expect  ? I know  it  to  be  so. 

John  Byrom. 


HO  can  paint 

Like  nature  ? Can  imagination  boast 
Amid  her  gay  creation,  hues  like  hers? 
And  can  he  mix  them  with  that  match* 


less  skill, 

And  lay  them  on  so  delicately  fine, 

And  lose  them  in  each  other,  as  appears 
In  every  bud  that  blows?  Thomson. 


42 


IMMORTALITY. 


IMMORTALITY. 

IFE,  death,  eternity — how  vast,  how  deep,  how  solemn  these 
three  words,  so  familiar  to  us  all ! Who  can  measure, 
who  can  fathom  their  meaning  ? In  the  midst  of  life  we 
are  surrounded  by  death,  and  confronted  by  eternity  with 
its  boundless  prospects  of  weal  and  woe.  Life  on  earth 
ends  in  death,  and  death  is  but  the  dark  door  to  another 
life  which  has  no  end. 

Astronomy  cannot  tell  whether  this  visible  universe  has 
boundaries  or  not,  and  what  lies  beyond.  Theology  cannot 
determine  the  locality  of  that  invisible  universe  from  which 
no  traveller  returns,  nor  the  direction  and  length  of  that  lonely 
passage  which  carries  the  disembodied  spirit  from  its  present 
to  its  future  abode.  But  this  we  do  know,  and  it  is  enough 
for  our  comfort,  that  in  our  Father’s  house  are  many  man- 
sions, and  that  our  Saviour  has  prepared  a place  for  all  his 
disciples.  There  is  an  abundance  of  room  for  all  even  within 
the  limits  of  this  universe,  and  for  aught  we  know,  the  spirit 
world  may  be  very  near  and  around  about  us.  There  are  ex- 
alted moments  in  our  life  when  we  see  the  heavens  open  and 
the  angels  of  God  descending  and  ascending.  Life  is  a mys- 
tery, a glorious  mystery  with  a heaven  beyond,  but  a terrible 
mystery  with  annihilation  or  endless  punishment  in  prospect. 
The  immortality  of  the  soul  is  a universal  instinct  and  de- 
race. Like  the  idea  of  God,  it  is  implanted  in  our  intellectual 
and  moral  constitution.  We  cannot  think  backward  without  reaching  an  ultimate 
cause  which  has  no  beginning ; we  cannot  think  forward  without  arriving  at  a result 
which  has  no  ending.  God  and  eternity  precede  time  and  succeed  time,  and  time 
itself  is  filled  with  both.  We  cannot  conceive  that  a wise  Creator  should  make  man 
in  his  own  image  and  endow  him  with  the  highest  faculties,  without  ordaining  him 
for  endless  existence.  He  cannot  intend  the  head  of  his  creatures,  the  masterpiece 
of  His  hand  to  perish  like  the  brute.  He  cannot  allow  virtue  to  suffer  and  iniquity 
to  flourish  without  some  future  adjustment  which  will  give  to  every  one  his  due, 
and  restore  the  harmony  of  character  and  condition. 

It  seems  impossible  that  a rational  being,  filled  with  infinite  longings  and  capable 
of  endless  progress,  should  be  suddenly  cut  off  in  the  beginning  of  its  career,  “ like 
the  empty  fabric  of  a vision,  leaving  no  wreck  behind.”  It  seems  impossible  that 
the  mind,  which  proves  its  independence  of  the  body  and  matures  in  strength  while 
the  body  declines,  should  be  dissolved  with  its  material  tent.  No  husband  can  close 
the  eyes  of  a beloved  wife,  no  parent  can  commit  a child  to  the  cold  grave,  no  friend 
can  bid  farewell  to  a bosom  friend  without  the  ardent  wish  for  the  recovery  of  the 


sire  of  the  human 


LIFE'S  COST. 


43 


loss  and  a meeting  again  in  a better  world,  where  tears  of  parting  are  unknown. 
Every  consideration  of  God’s  goodness,  love,  and  justice ; of  man’s  capacities,  de- 
sires, and  hopes ; and  of  surrounding  nature,  with  its  perennial  renovations  of  sea- 
sons and  transformation  of  death  itself  into  new  forms  of  life,  forces  upon  us  the 
belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  human  soul. 

But  after  all,  philosophy  and  science  can  lead  us  only  to  the  probability  of  immor- 
tality, and  there  is  a vast  step  from  probability  to  certainty.  The  starry  heavens 
above  and  the  moral  law  within  may  well  have  filled  the  great  philosopher  of  the  last 
century  with  ever  growing  reverence  and  awe ; but  beyond  the  starry  heavens  and 
behind  the  moral  law  lie  the  sublimer  regions  of  faith,  which  fill  us  with  deeper 
reverence,  and  which  alone  can  give  us  solid  comfort  in  life  and  in  death. 

Philip  Schaff,  D.  D. 


LIFE’S  COST. 


COULD  not  at  the  first  be  born 
But  by  another’s  bitter  wailing  pain ; 
Another’s  loss  must  be  my  sweetest  gain 
And  Love,  only  to  win  that  I might  be, 
Must  wet  her  couch  forlorn 
With  tears  of  blood  and  sweat  of  agony. 


Since  then  I cannot  live  a week 
But  some  fair  thing  must  leave  the  daisied  dells, 
The  joy  of  pastures,  bubbling  springs  and  wells, 
And  grassy  murmurs  of  its  peaceful  days, 

To  bleed  in  pain,  and  reek, 

And  die,  for  me  to  tread  life’s  pleasant  ways. 


I cannot  sure  be  warmed  or  lit 
But  men  must  crouch  and  toil  in  tortuous  caves, 
Bowed  on  themselves,  while  day  and  night  in  waves 
Of  blackness  wash  away  their  sunless  lives ; 

Or  blasted  and  sore  hit, 

Dark  life  to  darker  death  the  miner  drives. 


Naked,  I cannot  clothed  be 
But  worms  must  patient  weave  their  satin  shroud ; 
The  sheep  must  shiver  to  the  April  cloud, 

Yielding  his  one  white  coat  to  keep  me  warm ; 

In  shop  and  factory, 

Far  me  must  weary  toiling  millions  swarm. 

With  gems  I deck  not  brow  or  hand 
But  through  the  roaring  dark  of  cruel  seas 
Some  wretch  with  shivering  breath  and  trembling 
knees 


Goes  headlong,  while  the  sea-sharks  dodge  his  quest; 

Then  at  my  door  he  stands, 

Naked,  with  bleeding  ears  and  heaving  cnest. 

I fall  not  on  my  knees  and  pray 
But  God  must  come  from  heaven  to  fetch  that  sigh, 
And  pierced  hands  must  take  it  back  on  high ; 

And  through  His  broken  heart  and  cloven  side 
Love  makes  an  open  way 
For  me,  who  could  not  live  but  that  He  died. 

0 awful  sweetest  life  of  mine 

That  God  and  man  both  serve  in  blood  and  tears ! 

O prayers  I breathe  not  but  through  other  prayers ! 

O breath  of  life  compact  of  others’  sighs  ! 

With  this  dread  gift  divine 
Ah,  whither  go  ? — what  worthily  devise  ? 

If  on  myself  I dare  to  spend 
This  dreadful  thing,  in  pleasure  lapped  and  reared. 
What  am  I but  a hideous  idol  smeared 
With  human  blood,  that  with  its  carrion  smile 
Alike  to  foe  and  friend 
Maddens  the  wretch  who  perishes  the  while  ? 

1 will  away  and  find  my  God, 

And  what  I dare  not  keep  ask  Him  to  take, 

And  taking  love’s  sweet  sacrifice  to  make  ; 

Then,  like  a wave  the  sorrow  and  the  pain 
High  heaven  with  glory  flood — 

For  them,  for  me,  for  all,  a splendid  gain. 

Jane  Ellice  Hopkins 


44 


LINGER  NOT  LONG. 


THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


INGER  not  long.  Home  is  not  home  with- 
out thee  : 

Its  dearest  tokens  do  but  make  me 
mourn. 

O,  let  its  memory,  like  a chain  about  thee, 

Gently  compel  and  hasten  thy  return ! 

Linger  not  long.  Though  crowds  should  woo  thy 
staying, 

Bethink  thee,  can  the  mirth  of  friends,  though  dear, 
Compensate  for  the  grief  thy  long  delaying 

Costs  the  fond  heart  that  sighs  to  have  thee  here  ? 

Linger  not  long.  How  shall  I watch  thy  coming, 

As  evening  shadows  stretch  o’er  moor  and  dell; 
When  the  wild  bee  hath  ceased  her  busy  humming, 
And  silence  hangs  on  all  things  like  a spell ! 

How  shall  I watch  for  thee,  when  fears  grow  stronger, 
As  night  grows  dark  and  darker  on  the  hill ! 

How  shaPl  I weep,  when  I can  watch  no  longer ! 

Ah  ! art  thou  absent,  art  thou  absent  still  ? 


Yet  I should  grieve  not,  though  the  eye  that  seeth  me 
Gazeth  through  tears  that  make  its  splendor  dull ; 
For  O,  I sometimes  fear  when  thou  art  with  me, 

My  cup  of  happiness  is  all  too  full. 

Haste,  haste  thee  home  unto  thy  mountain  dwelling. 
Haste,  as  a bird  unto  its  peaceful  nest ! 

Haste,  as  a skiff,  through  tempests  wide  and  swelling. 
Flies  to  its  haven  of  securest  rest ! 

Anonymous. 


TWILIGHT  AT  SEA. 

g®giPj*5|jHE  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 
RgllM  As  lightly  and  as  free, 

V/3  OT  Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 
ail  Ten  thousand  on  the  sea  ; 

For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 

Had  caught  a star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

Amelia  B.  Welby. 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH 


45 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 


EAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s 
breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh 
Death ! 


Day  is  for  mortal  care, 

Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer — 
But  ail  for  Thee,  thou  mightest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 

Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a day  for  grief’s  o’erwhelming  power, 
A time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine. 


Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s  breath, 
And  stars  to  set — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  Death  ! 


We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 

When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 
When  autumn’s  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain— 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 


Is  it  when  Spring’s  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? — 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die ! 


Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 

Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 

And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there. 


Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend,. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind’s  breath, 
And  stars  to  set — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  Death  ! 

Felicia  Hemans. 


CHARITY. 

HOUGH  I speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and  have  not 
charity,  I am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or  a tinkling  cymbal.  And 
though  I have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  understand  all  mysteries,  and 
all  knowledge ; and  though  I have  all  faith,  so  that  I could  remove 
mountains,  and  have  not  charity,  I am  nothing.  And  though  I bestow  all  my  goods 
to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it 
profiteth  me  nothing. 

Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind ; charity  envieth  not ; charity  vaunteth  not 
itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not 
easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil ; rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the 
truth  ; beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things. 
Charity  never  faileth  ; but  whether  there  be  prophecies,  they  shall  fail ; whether 
there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease ; whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish 


away. 

For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part.  But  when  that  which  is  perfect 
is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away.  When  I was  a child,  I 
spake  as  a child,  I understood  as  a child,  I thought  as  a child ; but  when  I became 
a man,  I put  away  childish  things.  For  now  we  see  through  a glass,  darkly;  but 
then  face  'to  face : now  I know  in  part ; but  then  shall  I know  even  as  also  I 
am  known.  And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three ; but  the  greatest  of 
these  is  charity.  Holy  Bible. 


46  OH!  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL  BE  PROUD. 


OH!  WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF 
MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 

President  Lincoln’s  favorite  poem.  He  never  tired  of  repeat- 
ing its  suggestive  lines. 

H ! why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 
Like  a swift-fleeting  meteor,  a fast-flying 
cloud, 

A flash  of  the  lightning,  a break  of  the 
wave, 

Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 

Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be  laid ; 

And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 


The  infant  a mother  attended  and  loved ; 

The  mother  that  infant’s  affection  who  proved  • 

The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose 
eye, 

Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn ; 

The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 

Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 


The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap ; 

The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  up  the  steep; 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven ; 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven ; 

The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 

Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flowers,  or  the  weed 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 

So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 

To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been ; 

We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen; 

We  drink  the  same  stream  and  view  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have  run. 


The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would  think ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would 
shrink ; 

To  the  life  we  are  clinging  tney  also  would  cling; 
But  it  speeds  from  us  all  like  a bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold; 

They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold ; 
They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  will 
come ; 

They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died,  aye,  they  died — and  we  things  that  are  now 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 

Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a transient  abode, 

Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 

We  mingle  together  in  sunshine  and  rain; 


ACROSS  THE  RIVER. 


4 7 


And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other  like  surge  upon  surge. 

’Tis  the  wink  of  an  .eye,  ’tis  the  draught  of  a breath 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud — 
Oh ! why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 

William  Knox. 


’TWILL  NOT  BE  LONG. 

WILL  not  be  long — this  wearying  commo- 
tion 

That  marks  its  passage  in  the  human 
breast 

And,  like  the  billows  on  the  heaving  ocean, 

That  ever  rock  the  cradle  of  unrest, 

Will  soon  subside ; the  happy  time  is  nearing, 

When  bliss,  not  pain,  shall  have  its  rich  increase; 

E’en  unto  Thee  the  dove  may  now  be  steering 

With  gracious  message.  Wait,  and  hold  thy  peace ; 
’Twill  not  be  long  ! 

The  lamps  go  out;  the  stars  give  up  their  shining; 
The  world  is  lost  in  darkness  for  awhile ; 

And  foolish  hearts  give  way  to  sad  repining, 

And  feel  as  though  they  ne’er  again  could  smile. 

Why  murmur  thus,  the  needful  lesson  scorning  ? 

Oh,  read  thy  Teacher  and  His  word  aright ! 

The  world  would  have  no  greeting  for  the  morning, 
If  ’twere  not  for  the  darkness  of  the  night ; 

’Twill  not  be  long ! 

’Twill  not  be  long;  the  strife  will  soon  be  ended; 
The  doubts,  the  fears,  the  agony,  the  pain, 

Will  seem  but  as  the  clouds  that  low  descended 
To  yield  their  pleasure  to  the  parched  plain. 

The  times  of  weakness  and  of  sore  temptations. 

Of  bitter  grief  and  agonizing  cry; 

These  earthly  cares  and  ceaseless  tribulations 
Will  bring  a blissful  harvest  by-and-by — 

’Twill  not  be  long! 

’Twill  not  be  long;  the  eye  of  faith,  discerning 
The  wondrous  glory  that  shall  be  revealed, 

Instructs  the  soul,  that  every  day  is  learning 
The  better  wisdom  which  the  world  concealed. 

And  soon,  aye,  soon,  there’ll  be  an  end  of  teaching, 
When  mortal  vision  finds  immortal  sight, 

And  her  true  place  the  soul  in  gladness  reaching, 
Beholds  the  glory  of  the  Infinite — 

’Twill  not  be  long  ! 

“ ’Twill  not  be  long ! ” the  heart  goes  on  repeating; 
It  is  the  burden  of  the  mourner’s  song; 

The  work  of  grace  in  us  he  is  completing, 

Who  thus  assures  us — “ It  will,  not  be  long.” 

His  rod  and  staff  our  fainting  steps  sustaining, 

Our  hope  and  comfort  every  day  will  be ; 

And  we  may  bear  our  cross  as  uncomplaining 
As  He  who  leads  us  unto  Calvary; 

’Twill  not  be  long ! 


Anonymous. 


ACROSS  THE  RIVER. 

real  HEN  for  me  the  silent  oar 
Parts  the  Silent  River, 

And  I stand  upon  the  shore 
Of  the  strange  Forever, 

Shall  I miss  the  loved  and  known  ^ 
Shall  I vainly  seek  mine  own? 

Mid  the  crowd  that  come  to  meet 
Spirits  sin-forgiven — 

Listening  to  their  echoing  feet 
Down  the  streets  of  heaven — 

Shall  I know  a footstep  near 
That  I listen,  wait  for,  here? 

Then  will  one  approach  the  brink, 

With  a hand  extended  ? — 

One  whose  thoughts  I loved  to  think 
Ere  the  veil  was  rended, 

Saying,  “ Welcome  ! we  have  died. 

And  again  are  side  by  side.” 

Saying,  “ I will  go  with  thee, 

That  thou  be  not  lonely, 

To  yon  hills  of  mystery; 

I have  waited  only 
Until  now  to  climb  with  thee 
Yonder  hills  of  mystery.” 

Can  the  bonds  that  make  us  here 
Know  ourselves  immortal, 

Drop  away,  the  foliage  sear. 

At  life’s  inner  portal? 

What  is  holiest  below 
Must  forever  live  and  grow. 

I shall  love  the  angels  well, 

After  I have  found  them, 

In  the  mansions  where  they  dwell. 

With  the  glory  round  them ; 

But  at  first,  without  surprise, 

Let  me  look  for  human  eyes. 

Step  by  step  our  feet  must  go 
Up  the  holy  mountain ; 

Drop  by  drop  within  us  flow 
Life’s  unfailing  fountain. 

Angels  sing  with  crowns  that  burn ; 

Shall  we  have  a song  to  learn  ? 

He  who  on  our  earthly  path 
Bids  us  help  each  other — 

Who  his  Well-beloved  hath 
Made  our  Elder  Brother — 

Will  but  clasp  the  chain  of  love 
Closer,  when  we  meet  above. 

Therefore  dread  I not  to  go 
O’er  the  Silent  River; 

Death,  thy  hastening  oar  I know: 

Bear  me,  thou  life  giver, 

Through  the  waters,  to  the  shore 
Where  mine  own  have  gone  before. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


48 


EVA’S  DEATH. 


EVA’S  DEATH. 

From  “ Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin.” 

A,  after  this,  declined  rapidly : there  was  no  more  any  doubt  of  the 
event;  the  fondest  hope  could  not  be  blinded.  Her  beautiful  room  was 
avowedly  a sick-room,  and  Miss  Ophelia,  day  and  night,  performed  the 
duties  of  a nurse,  and  never  did  her  friends  appreciate  her  value  more 
than  in  that  capacity.  With  so  well-trained  a hand  and  eye,  such  perfect  adroit* 
ness  and  practice  in  every  art  which  could  promote  neatness  and  comfort  and  keep 
out  of  sight  every  disagreeable  incident  of  sickness — with  such  a perfect  sense  of 
time,  such  a clear,  untroubled  head,  such  exact  accuracy  in  remembering  every 
prescription  and  direction  of  the  doctors — she  was  everything  to  St.  Clare.  Ihey 
who  had  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  the  little  peculiarities  and  setnesses — so  unlike 
the  careless  freedom  of  Southern  manners — acknowledged  that  now  she  was  the 
exact  person  that  was  wanted. 

Uncle  Tom  was  much  in  Eva's  room.  The  child  suffered  much  fron 
restlessness,  and  it  was  a relief  to  her  to  be  carried;  and  it  was  Tom’s  great,, 
light  to  carry  her  little  frail  form  in  his  arms,  resting  on  a pillow,  now  up  and  down 
her  room,  now  out  into  the  veranda ; and  when  the  fresh  sea-breezes  blew  from 
the  lake — and  the  child  felt  freshest  in  the  morning — he  would  sometimes  walk  with 
her  under  the  orange-trees  in  the  garden,  or  sitting  down  in  some  of  their  old  seats, 
sing  to  her  their  favorite  old  hymns. 

Her  father  often  did  the  same  thing;  but  his  frame  was  slighter,  and  when  he  was 
weary,  Eva  would  say  to  him — 

“ Oh,  papa,  let  Tom  take  me.  Poor  fellow  ! it  pleases  him  ; and  you  know  it’s  all 
he  can  do  now,  and  he  wants  to  do  something ! ” 

“ So  do  I,  Eva ! ” said  her  father. 

“Well,  papa,  you  can  do  everything,  and  are  everything  to  me.  You  read  to 
me — you  sit  up  nights;  and  Tom  has  only  this  one  thing,  and  his  singing;  and  I 
know,  too,  he  does  it  easier  than  you  can.  He  carries  me  so  strong ! ” 

The  desire  to  do  something  was  not  confined  to  Tom.  Every  servant  in  the  es- 
tablishment showed  the  same  feeling,  and  in  their  way  did  what  they  could.  But 
the  friend  who  knew  most  of  Eva’s  own  imaginings  and  foreshadowings  was  her 
faithful  bearer,  Tom.  To  him  she  said  what  she  would  not  disturb  her  father  by 
saying.  To  him  she  imparted  those  mysterious  intimations  which  the  soul  feels  as 
the  cords  begin  to  unbind  ere  it  leaves  its  clay  forever. 

Tom,  at  last,  would  not  sleep  in  his  room,  but  lay  all  night  in  the  outer  veranda, 
ready  to  rouse  at  every  call. 

“ Uncle  Tom,  what  alive  have  you  taken  to  sleeping  anywhere  and  everywhere, 
like  a dog,  for?”  said  Miss  Ophelia.  “ I thought  you  was  one  of  the  orderly  sort 
that  liked  to  lie  in  bed  in  a Christian  way.” 

“ I do,  Miss  Feely,”  said  Tom,  mysteriously.  “I  do ; but  now — ” 

“ Well,  what  now  ? ” 


EVA’S  DEATH. 


49 


We  mustn’t  speak  loud ; Mas’r  St.  Clare  won’t  hear  on’t.  But  Miss  Feely,  you 
know  there  must  be  somebody  watchin’  for  the  bridegroom.” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Tom  ? ” 

“ You  know  it  says  in  Scripture,  ‘ At  midnight  there  was  a great  cry  made.  Behold, 
the  bridegroom  cometh.’  That’s  what  I’m  spectin’  now  every  night,  Miss  Feely,  and 
I couldn’t  sleep  out  o’  hearin’  no  ways.” 

“ Why,  Uncle  Tom,  what  makes  you  think  so?” 

“ Miss  Eva,  she  talks  to  me.  The  Lord,  he  sends  his  messenger  in  the  soul.  I 
must  be  thar,  Miss  Feely;  for  when  that  ar  blessed  child  goes  into  the  kingdom, 
they’ll  open  the  door  so  wide  we’ll  get  a look  in  at  the  glory,  Miss  Feely.” 

“XJncle  Tom,  did  Miss  Eva  say  she  felt  more  unwell  than  usual  to-night?” 

“ No ; but  she  telled  me  this  morning  she  was  cornin’  nearer,  Thar’s  them  that 
tells  it  to  the  child,  Miss  Feely.  It’s  the  angels ; * it’s  the  trumpet  sound  afore  the 
break  o’  day,’  ” said  Tom,  quoting  from  a favorite  hymn. 

This  dialogue  passed  between  Miss  Ophelia  and  Tom  between  ten  and  eleven  one 
4er  her  arrangements  had  all  been  made  for  the  night,  when,  on  going  to  bolt 
iici  outer  door,  she  found  Tom  stretched  along  by  it  in  the  outer  veranda. 

She  was  not  nervous  or  impressible,  but  the  solemn,  heartfelt  manner  struck  her. 
Eva  had  been  unusually  bright  and  cheerful  that  afternoon,  and  had  sat  raised  in  her 
bed  and  looked  over  all  her  little  trinkets  and  precious  things  and  designated  the 
friends  to  whom  she  would  have  them  given,  and  her  manner  was  more  animated 
and  her  voice  more  natural  than  they  had  known  it  for  weeks.  Her  father  had  been 
in  in  the  evening  and  had  said  that  Eva  appeared  more  like  her  former  self  than  ever 
she  had  done  since  her  sickness;  and  when  he  kissed  her  for  the  night  he  said  to  Miss 
Ophelia,  “ Cousin,  we  may  keep  her  with  us  after  all ; she  is  certainly  better ; ” and 
he  had  retired  with  a lighter  heart  in  his  bosom  than  he  had  had  there  for  weeks. 

But  at  midnight — strange,  mystic  hour ! when  the  veil  between  the  frail  present 
and  the  eternal  future  grows  thin — then  came  the  messenger. 

There  was  a sound  in  that  chamber,  first  of  one  who  stepped  quickly.  It  was 
Miss  Ophelia,  who  had  resolved  to  sit  up  all  night  with  her  little  charge,  and  who 
at  the  turn  of  the  night  had  discerned  what  experienced  nurses  significantly  call  “a 
change.”  The  outer  door  was  quickly  opened,  and  Tom,  who  was  watching  outside, 
was  on  the  alert  in  a moment. 

“ Go  for  the  doctor,  Tom.  Lose  not  a moment,”  said  Miss  Ophelia;  and  stepping 
across  the  room  she  rapped  at  St.  Clare’s  door. 

“ Cousin,”  she  said,  “ I wish  you  would  come.” 

Those  words  fell  on  his  heart  like  clods  upon  a coffin.  Why  did  they  ? He  was 
up  and  in  the  room  in  an  instant  and  bending  over  Eva,  who  still  slept. 

What  was  it  he  saw  that  made  his  heart  stand  still  ? Why  was  no  word  spoken 
between  the  two  ? Thou  canst  say  who  hast  seen  that  same  expression  on  the  face 
dearest  to  thee — that  look  indescribable,  hopeless,  unmistakable,  that  says  to  thee 
that  thy  beloved  is  no  longer  thine. 

4 


50 


EVA'S  DEATH. 


On  the  face  of  the  child,  however,  there  was  no  ghastly  imprint — only  a high  and 
almost  sublime  expression,  the  overshadowing  presence  of  spiritual  natures,  the 
dawning  of  immortal  life  in  that  childish  soul. 

They  stood  there  so  still,  gazing  upon  her,  that  even  the  ticking  of  the  watch  seemed 
too  loud.  In  a few  moments  Tom  returned  with  the  doctor.  He  entered,  gave  one 
look,  and  stood  silent  as  the  rest. 

“ When  did  this  change  take  place?”  said  he,  in  a low  whisper  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

“ About  the  turn  of  the  night,”  was  the  reply. 

Marie,  roused  by  the  entrance  of  the  doctor,  appeared  hurriedly  from  the  next 
room.  “Augustine!  Cousin!  Oh,  what !”  she  hurriedly  began. 

“ Hush  !”  said  St.  Clare,  hoarsely;  “she  is  dying  !” 

Mammy  heard  the  words  and  flew  to  awaken  the  servants.  The  house  was  soon 
roused.  Lights  were  seen,  footsteps  heard,  anxious  faces  thronged  the  veranda  and 
looked  tearfully  through  the  glass  doors,  but  St.  Clare  heard  and  said  nothing.  He 
saw  only  that  look  on  the  face  of  the  little  sleeper. 

“ Oh,  if  she  would  only  wake  and  speak  once  more ! ” he  said ; and  stooping  over 
her  he  spoke  in  her  ear,  “ Eva,  darling.” 

The  large  blue  eyes  unclosed ; a smile  passed  over  her  face ; she  tried  to  raise 
her  head  and  speak. 

“Do  you  know  me,  Eva?” 

“ Dear  papa,”  said  the  child  with  a last  effort,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
In  a moment  they  dropped  again,  and  as  St.  Clair  raised  his  head  he  saw  a spasm  of 
mortal  agony  pass  over  the  face ; she  struggled  for  breath  and  threw  up  her  little  hands. 

“ O God,  this  is  dreadful !”  he  said,  turning  away  in  agony  and  wringing  Tom’s 
hand,  scarce  conscious  what  he  was  doing.  “Oh,  Tom,  my  boy,  it  is  killing  me!” 

Tom  had  his  master’s  hands  between  his  own,  and,  with  tears  streaming  down  his 
dark  cheeks,  looked  up  for  help  where  he  had  always  been  used  to  look. 

“ Pray  that  this  may  be  cut  short,”  said  St.  Clare.  “ This  wrings  my  heart!” 

“ Oh,  bless  the  Lord  ! it’s  over,  it’s  over,  dear  master,”  said  Tom  ; “ look  at  her.” 

The  child  lay  panting  on  her  pillows  as  one  exhausted,  the  large,  clear  eyes  rolled 
up  and  fixed.  Ah,  what  said  those  eyes  that  spoke  so  much  of  heaven  ? Earth  was 
past,  and  earthly  pain ; but  so  solemn,  so  mysterious  was  the  triumphant  brightness 
of  that  face  that  it  checked  even  the  sobs  of  sorrow.  They  pressed  around  her  in 
breathless  stillness. 

“ Eva,”  said  St.  Clare,  gently.  She  did  not  hear. 

“ Oh,  Eva,  tell  us  what  you  see.  What  is  it?”  said  her  father. 

A bright,  a glorious  smile  passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said  brokenly,  “ Oh,  love, 
joy,  peace ! ” gave  one  sigh,  and  passed  from  death  unto  life. 

Farewell,  beloved  child.  The  bright,  eternal  doors  have  closed  after  thee ; we 
shall  see  thy  sweet  face  no  more.  Oh,  woe  for  them  who  watched  thy  entrance  into 
heaven  when  they  shall  wake  and  find  only  the  cold,  gray  sky  of  daily  life,  and  thou 
gone  forever ! 


FOR  LOVE’S  SAKE. 


51 


FOR  LOVE’S  SAKE. 

Among  the  monthly  letters  circulated  by  the  Women’s  Foreign 
Missionary  Boards  is  found  the  following  poem,  contributed 
by  Mrs.  Prest*n  for  January,  1882.  The  “ Moslem  palace  ” to 
which  she  refers  is  the  celeb^ted  Taj  Mahal  at  Agra,  and  is  the 
finest  edifice  in  India,  if  not  in  the  world.  It  was  erected  in  the 
17th  century  by  the  Emperor  Shah  Jehan  as  a mausoleum  for  his 
favorite  queen,  Noor  Jehan.  The  building  is  of  white  marble, 
and  its  cost  is  said  to  have  been  over  $15,000,000.  In  the  cen- 
tral hall  are  the  tombs  of  the  emperor  and  his  queen. 

OU  have  read  of  the  Moslem  palace, - 
The  marvellous  fane  that  stands 
On  the  banks  of  the  distant  Jumna, 

The  wonder  of  all  the  lands ; 

You  have  read  of  its  marble  splendors, 

Its  carvings  of  rare  device, 

Its  domes  and  its  towers  that  glistep 
Like  visions  of  Paradise. 

You  have  listened  as  one  has  told  you 
Of  its  pinnacles  snowy-fair, — 

So  pure  that  they  seemed  suspended 
Like  clouds  in  the  crystal  air ; 

Of  the  flow  of  its  fountains  falling 
As  softly  as  mourners’  tears  ; 

Of  the  lily  and  rose  kept  blooming 
For  over  two  hundred  years; 

Of  the  friezes  of  frost-like  beauty. 

The  jewels  that  crust  the  wall, 

The  carvings  that  crown  the  archway, 

The  innermost  shrine  of  all, — 

Where  lies  in  her  sculptured  coffin, 

(Whose  chiselings  mortal  man 
Hath  never  excelled,)  the  dearest 
Of  the  loves  of  the  Shah  Jeh&n. 

They  read  you  the  shining  legends 
Whose  letters  are  set  in  gems, 

On  the  walls  of  the  sacred  chamber 
That  sparkle  like  diadems. 

And  they  tell  you  these  letters,  gleaming 
Wherever  the  eye  may  look, 

Are  words  of  the  Moslem  Prophet, 

Are  texts  from  his  holy  book. 

And  still  as  you  heard,  you  questioned 
Right  wonderingly,  as  you  must, 

“ Why  rear  such  a palace,  only 
To  shelter  a woman’s  dust  ? ” 

Why  rear  it  ? — the  Shah  had  promised 
His  beautiful  Nourmahal 
To  do  it  because  he  loved  her, 

He  loved  her — and  that  was  all ! 

So  minaret,  wall,  and  column, 

And  tower  and  dome  above, 

All  tell  of  a sacred  promise, 

All  utter  one  accent — love. 


You  know  of  another  temple, 

A grander  than  Hindoo  shrine. 

The  splendor  of  whose  perfections 
Is  mystical,  strange,  divine. 

You  have  read  of  its  deep  foundations, 

Which  neither  the  frost  nor  flood 
Nor  forces  of  earth  can  weaken, 

Cemented  in  tears  and  blood. 

That,  chosen  with  skill  transcendent, 

By  the  wisdom  that  fills  the  throne, 

Was  quarried,  and  hewn,  and  polished, 

Its  wonderful  corner-stone. 

So  vast  is  its  scale  proportioned, 

So  lofty  its  turrets  rise, 

That  the  pile  in  its  finished  glory 
Will  reach  to  the  very  skies. 

The  lapse  of  the  silent  Kedron, 

The  roses  of  Sharon  fair, 

Gethsemane’s  sacred  olives 
And  cedars  are  round  it  there. 

And  graved  on  its  walls  and  pillars, 

And  cut  in  its  crystal  stone, 

Are  the  words  of  our  Prophet,  sweeter 
Than  Islam’s  hath  ever  known, — 

Texts  culled  from  the  holy  Gospel, 

That  comfort,  refresh,  sustain, 

And  shine  with  a rarer  lustre 

Than  the  gems  of  the  Hindoo  fane. 

The  plan  of  the  temple,  only 
Its  architect  understands ; 

And  yet  He  accepts — (Oh,  wonder!) 

The  helping  of  human  hands  ! 

And  so,  for  the  work’s  progression, 

He  is  willing  that  great  and  small 
Should  bring  Him  their  bits  of  carving. 

So  needed,  to  fill  the  wall. 

Not  one  does  the  Master-Builder 
Disdainfully  cast  away  : 

Why,  even  He  takes  the  chippings, 

We  women  have  brought  to-day  ! 

Oh,  not  to  the  dead — to  the  living — 

We  rear  on  the  earth  He  trod, 

This  fane  to  his  lasting  glory, 

This  Church  to  the  Christ  of  God  ! 

Why  labor  and  strive  ? We  have  promised 
(And  dare  we  the  vow  recall?) 

To  do  it  because  we  love  Him, 

We  love  Him — and  that  is  all ! 

For  over  the  Church’s  portal, 

Each  pillar  and  arch  above, 

The  Master  has  set  one  signet, 

And  graven  one  watchword — LOVE. 

Margaret  J.  Presto*. 


0 of 


52 


THE  DEAD  HOUSE. 


THE  DEAD  HOUSE. 


ERE  once  my  step  was  quickened, 

Here  beckoned  the  opening  door, 

And  welcome  thrilled  from  the  threshold 
To  the  foot  it  had  known  before. 


A glow  came  forth  to  meet  me 

From  the  flame  that  laughed  in  the  grate. 
And  shadows  a-dance  on  the  ceiling, 
Danced  blither  with  mine  for  a mate. 


**  I claim  you,  old  friend,”  yawned  the  arm-chair, 
“ This  corner,  you  know,  is  your  seat ; ” 

“ Rest  your  slippers  on  me,”  beamed  the  fender, 

“ I brighten  at  touch  of  your  feet.” 


“ We  know  the  practised  finger,” 

Said  the  books,  “that  seems  like  brain j* 
And  the  shy  page  rustled  the  secret 
It  had  kept  till  I came  again. 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH. 


53 


Sang  the  pillow,  “ My  down  once  quivered 
On  nightingales’  throats  that  flew 
Through  moonlit  gardens  of  Hafiz 
To  gather  quaint  dreams  for  you.” 


In  a dim  and  murky  chamber, 

I am  breathing  life  away  ; 

Some  one  draws  a curtain  softly, 
And  I watch  the  broadening  day. 


Ah  me,  where  the  Past  sowed  heart’s -ease, 

The  Present  plucks  rue  for  us  men  ! 

I come  back : that  scar  unhealing 
Was  not  in  the  churchyard  then. 

But,  I think,  the  house  is  unaltered, 

I will  go  and  beg  to  look 

At  the  rooms  that  were  once  familiar 
To  my  life  as  its  bed  to  a brook. 

Unaltered  ! Alas  for  the  sameness 
That  makes  the  change  but  more  ! 

’Tis  a dead  man  I see  in  the  mirrors, 

’Tis  his  tread  that  chills  the  floor ! 

To  learn  such  a simple  lesson, 

Need  I go  to  Paris  and  Rome, 

That  the  many  make  the  household, 

But  only  one  the  home  ? 

’Twas  just  a womanly  presence, 

An  influence  unexprest, 

But  a rose  she  had  worn,  on  my  grave-sod 
Were  more  than  long  life  with  the  rest ! 

’Twas  a smile,  ’twas  a garment’s  rustle, 

’Twas  nothing  that  I can  phrase, 

But  the  whole  dumb  dwelling  grew  conscious, 
And  put  on  her  looks  and  ways. 

Were  it  mine,  I would  close  the  shutters, 

Like  lids  when  the  life  is  fled, 

And  the  funeral  fire  should  wind  it. 

This  corpse  of  a home  that  is  dead. 

For  it  died  that  autumn  morning 
When  she,  its  soul,  was  borne 

To  lie  all  dark  on  the  hillside 

That  looks  over  woodland  and  corn. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 

As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 

There’s  a hush  of  death  about  me, 

And  a whisper,  “ He  is  gone  ! ” 

Henry  Timrod. 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH. 

HERE  is  no  death  ! The  stars  go  down 
To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore  : 

And  bright  in  heaven’s  jewelled  crown 
They  shine  forevermore. 

There  is  no  death  ! The  dust  we  tread 
Shall  change  beneath  the  summer  showCrs 

To  golden  grain  or  mellowed  fruit, 

Or  rainbow-tinted  flowers. 

The  granite  rocks  disorganize, 

And  feed  the  hungry  moss  they  bear; 

The  forest  leaves  drink  daily  life, 

From  out  the  viewless  air. 

There  is  no  death  ! The  leaves  may  fall. 

And  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away ; 

. They  only  wait  through  wintry  hours, 

The  coming  of  the  May. 

There  is  no  death  ! An  angel  form 
Walks  o’er  the  earth  with  silent  tread ; 

He  bears  our  best  loved  things  away  ; 

And  then  we  call  them  “ dead.” 

He  leaves  our  hearts  all  desolate, 

He  plucks  our  fairest,  sweetest  flowers; 

Transplanted  into  bliss,  they  now 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  bird-like  voice,  whose  joyous  tones, 

Made  glad  these  scenes  of  sin  and  strife, 

Sings  now  an  everlasting  song, 

Around  the  tree  of  life. 


A COMMON  THOUGHT. 

The  sad-souled  man  who  wrote  these  lines,  whose  whole  life 
was  clouded  by  intense  physical  and  mental  suffering — for  he 
faced  death  often  and  hunger  many  times — was  born  in  Char- 
leston, S.  C.,  in  1829.  He  died,  after  giving  promise  of  rare 
poetical  powers,  at  Columbia,  S.  C.,  in  1867. 


OMEWHERE  on  this  earthly  planet, 
In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 

In  the  dew-drop,  in  the  sunshine, 
Sleeps  a solemn  day  for  me. 


At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 
I behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 

And  I hear  the  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness — hist ! oh,  hist ! 


Where’er  He  sees  a smile  too  bright, 

Or  heart  too  pure  for  taint  and  vice, 

He  bears  it  to  that  world  of  light, 

To  dwell  in  Paradise. 

Born  unto  that  undying  life, 

They  leave  us  but  to  come  again ; 

With  joy  we  welcome  them  the  same — 

Except  their  sin  and  pain. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 

The  dear  immortal  spirits  tread  ; 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life — there  are  no  dead. 

Lord  Lytton. 


54 


FROM  THE  MO  UN  TAIN  TOP. 


FROM  THE  MOUNTAIN  TOP. 


Miss  Larcom,  who  has  written  a great  number  of  minor  poems  of  excellent  merit,  was  born  in  Beverly,  Mass.,  in  1826.  Early 
In  life  she  was  a factory  operative,  leaving  this  work  for  the  more  congenial  one  of  a woman  of  letters. 


EAR  world,  looking  down  from  the  highest 
of  heights  that  my  feet  can  attain, 

I see  not  the  smoke  of  your  cities,  the 
dust  of  your  highway  and  plain; 

Over  all  your  dull  moors  and  morasses  a veil  the  blue 
atmosphere  folds, 

And  you  might  be  made  wholly  of  mountains  for 
aught  that  my  vision  beholds. 

.Dear  world,  I look  down  and  am  grateful  that  so 
we  all  sometimes  may  stand 

Above  our  own  every-day  level,  and  know  that  our 
nature  is  grand 

|u  its  possible  glory  of  climbing,  in  the  hilltops  that 
beckon  and  bend 

So  close  over  every  mortal  he  scarcely  can  choose  but 
ascend. 


Though  here,  oh,  my  world,  we  miss  something — 
the  sweet  multitudinous  sound 

Of  leaves  in  the  forest  a-flutter,  of  rivulets  lisping 
around, 

The  smell  of  wild  pastures  in  blossom,  of  fresh  earth 
upturned  by  the  plow — 

The  uplands  and  all  the  green  hillsides  lead  the  way 
to  the  mountain’s  brow. 

One  world ; there  is  no  separation ; the  same  earth 
above  and  below ; 

Up  here  is  the  river’s  cloud-cradle ; down  there  is  its 
fullness  and  flow ; 

My  voice  joins  the  voice  of  your  millions  who  up- 
ward in  weariness  grope, 

And  the  hills  bear  the  burdens  to  heaven — humanity’s 
anguish  and  hope ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 


55 


Dear  world,  lying  quiet  and  lovely  in  a shimmer  of 
gossamer  haze, 

Beneath  the  soft  films  of  your  mantle  I can  feel  your 
heart  beat  as  I gaze ; 

I know  you  by  what  you  aspire  to,  by  the  look  that 
on  no  face  can  be 

Save  in  moments  of  high  consecration ; you  are  show- 
ing your  true  self  to  me. 

Dear  world,  I behold  but  your  largeness ; I forget  that 
aught  petty  or  mean 

Ever  marred  the  vast  sphere  of  your  beauty,  over 
which  as  a lover  I lean ; 

And  not  by  our  flaws  will  God  judge  us ; his  love 
keeps  our  noblest  in  sight ; 

Dear  world,  our  low  life  sinks  behind  us ; we  look  up 
to  his  infinite  height ! 

Lucy  Larcom. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 


They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 

And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 
While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 
Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 

And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 
With  costly  marble  dressed, 

In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 

And  the  choir  sings  and  the  organ  rings 
Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 
That  ever  buckled  sword; 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 
That  ever  breathed  a word ; 

And  never  earth’s  philosopher 
Traced  with  his  golden  pen, 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 


*f  And  he  buried  him  in  a valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over 
against  Beth-peor ; but  no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto 
this  day.” — Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 

Y Nebo’s  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan’s  wave, 

In  a vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 
There  lies  a lonely  grave ; 

But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e’er, 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 
That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 

But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 

And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean’s  cheek 
Grows  into  the  great  sun — 

Noiselessly  as  the  springtime 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves — 

So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown 
The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 
On  gray  Beth-peor’s  height, 

Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 

Perchance  the  lion,  stalking. 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot; 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 
That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

Lo ! when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum 
Follow  the  funeral  car. 


And  had  he  not  high  honor  ? 

The  hillside  for  his  pall ; 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall ; 

And  the  dark  rock  pines  like  tossing  plumes. 
Over  his  bier  to  wave ; 

And  God’s  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land. 
To  lay  him  in  the  grave — 

In  that  deep  grave  without  a name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 

Shall  break  again — O wondrous  thought  ! — 
Before  the  judgment  day; 

And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life' 
With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O lonely  tomb  in  Moab’s  land ! 

O dark  Beth-peor’s  hill ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours 
And  teach  them  to  be  still. 

God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 

He  hides  them  deep  like  the  secret  sleep 
Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 


IN  SUFFERING. 

ATHER,  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done; 
So  prayed  on  earth  Thy  suffering  Son ; 

So  in  his  name  I pray. 

The  spirit  faints,  the  flesh  is  weak, 

Thy  help  in  agony  I seek, 

Oh  ! take  this  cup  away. 


If  such  be  not  Thy  sovereign  will, 
Thy  wiser  purpose  then  fulfil ; 

My  wishes  I resign  ; 

Into  Thy  hands  my  soul  commend, 
On  Thee  for  life  or  death  depend; 
Thy  will  be  done,  not  mine. 


Anonymous. 


56 


THE  FIRST  TE  DEEM. 


THE  FIRST  TE  DEUM. 

Mrs.  Preston,  a daughter  of  Dr.  George  Junkin,  was  born  in 
Lexingon,Va.,  and  has  been  a frequent  contributor  to  the  literary 
life  of  the  day.  Her  sister  was  the  wife  of  the  Confederate  Gen- 
eral Stonewall  Jackson. 

WAS  Easter  night  in  Milan,  and  before 
The  altar  in  the  great  Basilica 
St.  Ambrose  stood.  At  the  baptismal  font 
Kneeled  a young  neophyte,  his  brow  still 
wet 

With  the  symbolic  water,  and  near  by— 

The  holy  Monica,  her  raised  eyes  strained, 

As  with  unearthly  ecstasy  she  breathed 
Her  Nunc  dimittis  Domine  / The  words 
Of  comfort  spoken,  “ Be  sure  the  child  for  whom 
Thy  mother-heart  hath  poured  so  many  prayers, 

Shall  not  be  lost,”  had  full  accomplishment, 

And  her  tired  heart  found  peace, 

St.  Ambrose  raised 
His  hands  to  heaven  and 
on  his  face  there  shone 
Such  light  as  glorified  the 
prophet’s  when 
An  angel  from  the  altar 
bare  a coal 

And  touched  his  lips. 

With  solemn  step  and 
slow 

He  turned  to  meet  Augus- 
tine as  he  rose 
Up  from  the  pavement  and 
thereon  he  brake 
Forth  in  ascriptive  chant : 

“ We  praise  thee, 

God, 

And  we  acknowledge  Thee 
to  be  the  Lord  ! ” 

Augustine  on  the  instant 
caught  the  tone 
Of  answering  exultation  : 

“ All  the  earth 
Doth  worship  Thee,  the 
Father  everlasting  ! ” 

And  from  the  altar  rail 
came  back  again 
The  antiphony  : 

“ To  Thee  all  an- 
gels cry 

Aloud,  the  heavens  and  all 
the  powers  therein.” 

And  from  the  font 

“ To  Thee  the  cherubim 
And  seraphim  continually  do  cry 
‘Oh,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  thou  Lord  God 
Of  Sabaoth  ! ’ Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  all 
The  glory  of  Thy  majesty? ” 

And  then 

With  upward  gaze,  as  if  he  looked  upon 
The  infinite  multitude  about  the  throne, 

St.  Ambrose  uttered  with  triumphant  voice, 

“ The  glorious  company  of  the  Apostles” — 
“ Praise  Thee  ! ” burst  reverent  from  Augustine’s  lips. 
“ The  goodly  fellowship  of  all  the  prophets  ” — 

**  Praise  Thee  ! ” “ The  noble  army  of  the  martyrs” — 
**  Praise  Thee  1 ” 


Thus  back  and  forth  responsive  rolled 
The  grand  antiphonal,  untii  the  crowd 
That  kneeled  throughout  the  vast  Basilica 
Rose  to  their  feet,  and  toward  the  altar  pressed 
With  one  strong  impulse  drawn.  The  breath  of  God 
Had,  to  their  thought,  inspired  these  mortal  tongues 
To  which  they  listened,  as  beneath  a spell 
Vatic  and  wonderful. 

And  when  the  last 

Response  was  reached,  and  the  rapt  speakers  stood' 
With  eyelids  closed — as  those  who  had  seen  God 
And  could  not  brook  at  once  a mortal  face — 
Awe-struck  the  people  bowed  their  heads  and  wept  :• 
Then  uttered  with  acclaim  one  long  Amen. 

M.  J.  Preston. 

WATCHMAN,  WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

AY,  watchman, 
what  of  the 
night  ? 

Do  the  dews 
of  the  morn- 
ing fall  ? 

Have  the  orient  skies  a 
border  of  light, 

Like  the  fringe  of  a 
funeral  pall  ? 

“ The  night  is  fast  waning 
on  high, 

And  soon  shall  the  dark- 
ness flee, 

And  the  morn  shall  spread! 
o’er  the  blushing  sky, 
And  bright  shall  its  glo- 
ries be.” 

But,  watchman,  what  of 
the  night, 

When  sorrow  and  pain 
are  mine, 

And  the  pleasures  of  life, 
so  sweet  and  bright. 

No  longer  around  me 
shine  ? 

“ That  night  of  sorrow  thy 
soul 

May  surely  prepare  te 
meet, 

But  away  shall  the  clouds  of  thy  heaviness  roll, 

And  the  morning  of  joy  be  sweet.” 

But,  watchman,  what  of  the  night, 

When  the  arrow  of  death  is  sped, 

And  the  grave,  which  no  glimmering  star  can  light* 
Shall  be  my  sleeping  bed  ? 

“ That  night  is  near,  and  the  cheerless  tomb 
Shall  keep  thy  body  in  store, 

Till  the  morn  of  eternity  rise  on  the  gloom. 

And  night  shall  be  no  more ! ” 


RESIGNATION. 


5 7 


RESIGNATION. 

HERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 

There  is  no  fireside  howsoe’er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying; 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted ! 

Let  us  be  patient ! These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise, 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funeral  tapers 
May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  death ! What  seqms  so  is  transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead — the  child  of  our  affection — - 
But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection. 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 

Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s  pollution. 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives, 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a child  ; 

But  a fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  mansion. 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace; 

And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul’s  expansion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed, 

The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 
That  cannot  be  at  rest — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 
We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES 

The  following  poem  is  the  last  one  by  Phoebe  Cary.  It  is  the 
song  of  the  dying  swan,  tender,  and  sweet,  and  beautiful. 


ROSAMOND,  thou  fair  and  good, 

And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 
Thou  royal  rose  of  June  ! 

Why  didst  thou  droop  before  thy  time  > 
Why  wither  in  the  first  sweet  prime  ? 
Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon  ? 


For,  looking  backward  through  my  tears 
On  thee,  and  on  my  wasted  years, 

I cannot  choose  but  say, 

If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide, 

Or  thou  hadst  lived  and  I had  died, 
’Twere  better  far  to-day. 


O child  of  light,  O Golden  head  ! — 

Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 
Upon  life’s  lonely  way — 

Why  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  ? 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  light 
From  Heaven’s  unclouded  day? 

O Friend  so  true,  O Friend  so  good!^- 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood. 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms — 

What  had  I done,  or  what  hadst  thou, 

That,  through  this  lonesome  world  till  now. 
We  walk  with  empty  arms? 


And  yet  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
With  all  it  loved  and  coveted, — 

Had  life  been  always  fair — 

Would  these  dear  dreams  that  ne’er  depart,. 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 
Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 

The  friends  I held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 

Could  I have  learned  that  clear,  calm  faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bonds  of  death, 

And  almost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build ; 

That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed. 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled. 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain, 
Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb ; 

But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evermore, 

And  wait  for  us  to  come. 


And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise, 

Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies, 
Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and  death, 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith. 

Shall  be  thy  faith’s  reward. 


Phoebe  Cary. 


58 


THE  RIGHTEOUS  NEVER  FORSAKEN. 


THE  RIGHTEOUS  NEVER  FORSAKEN. 

T was  Saturday  night,  and  the  widow  of  the  pine  cottage  sat  by  her 
blazing  fagots  with  her  five  tattered  children  by  her  side,  endeavor- 
ing, by  listening  to  the  artlessness  of  their  juvenile  prattle,  to  dissipate 
the  heavy  gloom  that  pressed  upon  her  mind.  For  a year  her  own 
feeble  hands  had  provided  for  her  helpless  family,  for  she  had  no 
supporter.  She  thought  of  no  friend  in  all  the  wide,  unfriendly 
world  around.  But  that  mysterious  Providence,  the  wisdom  of  whose 
ways  are  above  human  comprehension,  had  visited  her  with  wasting 
sickness,  and  her  little  means  had  become  exhausted.  It  was  now, 
too,  midwinter,  and  the  snow  lay  heavy  and  deep  through  all  the  surrounding  forests, 
while  storms  still  seemed  gathering  in  the  heavens  and  the  driving  wind  roared 
amidst  the  bending  pines  and  rocked  her  puny  mansion. 

The  last  herring  smoked  upon  the  hearth  before  her.  It  was  the  only  article  of 
food  she  possessed,  and  no  wonder  her  forlorn,  desolate  state  brought  up  in  her  lone 
bosom  all  the  anxieties  of  a mother  when  she  looked  upon  her  children;  no  wonder, 
forlorn  as  she  was,  if  she  suffered  the  heart-swellings  of  despair  to  rise,  even  though 
she  knew  that  He  whose  promise  is  to  the  widow  and  orphan  cannot  forget  his  word. 
Many  years  before  her  eldest  son  had  left  his  forest  home  to  try  his  fortune  on  the 
billowy  wave;  of  him  she  had  heard  no  note  or  tidings.  In  latter  times  Providence 
had  deprived  her  of  the  companion  and  staff  of  her  worldly  pilgrimage  in  the  person 
of  her  husband.  Yet  to  this  hour  she  had  been  upborne;  she  had  not  only  been 
able  to  provide  for  her  little  flock,  but  had  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  ministering 
to  the  wants  of  the  miserable  and  destitute. 

The  indolent  may  well  bear  with  poverty  while  the  ability  to  gain  sustenance 
remains.  The  individual  who  has  but  his  own  wants  to  supply  may  suffer  with 
fortitude  the  winter  of  want ; his  affections  are  not  wounded,  his  heart  not  wrung. 
The  most  desolate  in  populous  cities  may  hope,  for  charity  has  not  quite  closed  her 
hand  and  heart  and  shut  her  eyes  on  misery;  but  the  industrious  mother  of  helpless 
and  depending  children,  far  from  the  reach  of  human  charity,  has  none  of  these  to 
console  her.  Such  a one  was  the  widow  of  the  pine  cottage ; but  as  she  bent  over 
the  fire  and  took  up  the  last  scanty  remnant  of  food  to  spread  before  her  children 
her  spirits  seemed  to  brighten  up,  as  by  some  sudden  and  mysterious  impulse,  and 
Cowper’s  beautiful  lines  came  uncalled  across  her  mind : 

li  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  Him  for  his  grace ; 

Behind  a frowning  providence 
He  hides  a smiling  face.” 

The  smoked  herring  was  scarce  laid  upon  the  table  when  a gentle  rap  at  the  door 
and  loud  barking  of  a dog  attracted  the  attention  of  the  family.  The  children  flew 
to  open  it,  and  a weary  traveller,  in  tattered  garments  and  apparently  indifferent 


THE  RIGHTEOUS  NEVER  FORSAKEN. 


59 


health,  entered  and  begged  a lodging  and  a mouthful  of  food.  Said  he,  “ It  is  now 
twenty-four  hours  since  I tasted  bread.”  The  widow’s  heart  bled  anew,  as  under  a 
fresh  complication  of  distresses,  for  her  sympathies  lingered  not  round  her  fireside. 
She  hesitated  not  even  now;  rest  and  share  of  all  she  had  she  proffered  to  the  stranger. 
“ We  shall  not  be  forsaken,”  said  she,  “ or  suffer  deeper  for  an  act  of  charity.” 

The  traveller  drew  near  the  board,  but  when  he  saw  the  scanty  fare  he  raised  his 
eyes  towards  heaven  with  astonishment.  “And  is  this  all  your  store?”  said  he; 
“ and  a share  of  this  do  you  offer  to  one  you  know  not  ? Then  never  saw  I charity 
before.  But,  madam,”  he  continued,  “ do  you  not  wrong  your  children  by  giving  a 
part  of  your  last  mouthful  to  a stranger  ? ” 

“Ah,”  said  the  poor  widow,  and  the  tear-drops  gushed  from  her  eyes  as  she  said 
it,  “ I have  a boy,  a darling  son,  somewhere  on  the  face  of  the  wide  world,  unless 
heaven  has  taken  him  away,  and  I only  act  towards  you  as  I would  that  others 
should  act  towards  him.  God,  who  sent  manna  from  heaven,  can  provide  for  us  as 
he  did  for  Israel ; and  how  should  I this  night  offend  him  if  my  son  should  be  a 
wanderer,  destitute  as  you,  and  should  have  provided  for  him  a home  even  poor  as 
this,  were  I to  turn  you  unrelieved  away ! ” 

The  widow  ended,  and  the  stranger,  springing  from  his  seat,  clasped  her  in  his 
arms.  “ God  indeed  has  provided  just  such  a home  for  your  wandering  son,  and 
has  given  him  wealth  to  reward  the  goodness  of  his  benefactress.  My  mother! 
O,  my  mother ! ” 

It  was  her  long-lost  son,  returned  to  her  bosom  from  the  Indies.  He  had  chosen 
that  disguise  that  he  might  the  more  completely  surprise  his  family,  and  never  was 
surprise  more  perfect  or  followed  by  a sweeter  cup  of  joy.  That  humble  residence 
in  the  forest  was  exchanged  for  one  comfortable,  indeed  beautiful,  in  the  valley,  and 
the  widow  lived  long  with  her  dutiful  son  in  the  enjoyment  of  worldly  plenty  and 
in  the  delightful  employments  of  virtue ; and  at  this  day  the  passer-by  is  pointed  to 
the  luxuriant  willow  that  spreads  its  branches  broad  and  green  above  her  grave, 
while  he  listens  to  the  recital  of  this  simple  and  homely,  but  not  altogether  worthless 
tale. 


6o 


NO  SECTS  IN  HEAVEN. 


NO  SECTS  IN  HEAVEN. 

ALKING  of  sects  till  late  one  eve, 

Of  the  various  doctrines  the  saints  believe, 
That  night  I stood,  in  a troubled  dream, 
By  the  side  of  a darkly  flowing  stream. 

And  a “ Churchma*  ” down  to  the  river  came ; 

When  I heard  a strange  voice  call  his  name, 

“ Good  father,  stop ; when  you  cross  this  tide, 

You  must  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side.” 

But  the  aged  father  did  not  mind  ; 

And  his  long  gown  floated  out  behind, 

As  down  to  the  stream  his  way  he  took, 

His  pale  hands  clasping  a gilt-edged  book. 

“ I’m  bound  for  heaven ; and  when  I’m  there. 

Shall  want  my  Book  of  Common  Prayer; 

And,  though  I put  on  a starry  crown, 

I should  feel  quite  lost  without  my  gown.” 

Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shining  track, 

But  his  gown  was  heavy  and  held  him  back. 

And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain, 

A single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I saw  him  again  on  the  other  side, 

But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide; 

And  no  one  asked,  in  that  blissful  spot, 

Whether  he  belonged  to  the  “ Church”  or  not. 

Then  down  to  the  river  a Quaker  strayed  ; 

His  dress  of  a sober  hue  was  made  : 

“ My  coat  and  hat  must  all  be  gray — 

I cannot  go  any  other  way.” 

Then  he  buttoned  his  coat  straight  up  to  his  chin, 
And  staidly,  solemnly,  waded  in, 

And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  he  pulled  down  tight. 
Over  his  forehead  so  cold  and  white. 

But  a strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat; 

A moment  he  silently  sighed  over  that ; 

And  then,  as  he  gazed  to  the  further  shore, 

The  coat  slipped  off,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

As  he  entered  heaven  his  suit  of  gray 
Went  quietly,  sailing,  away,  away ; 

And  none  of  the  angels  questioned  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver’s  brim. 

Next  came  Dr.  Watts,  with  a bundle  of  psalms 
Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms, 

And  hymns  as  many,  a very  wise  thing, 

That  the  people  in  heaven,  “ all  round,”  might  sing. 

But  I thought  that  he  heaved  an  anxious  sigh, 

And  he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and  high, 

And  looked  rather  surprised,  as  one  by  one 
The  psalms  and  hymns  in  the  wave  went  down. 


And  there  on  the  river  far  and  wide, 

Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide ; 

And  the  saint,  astonished,  passed  through  alone, 
Without  his  manuscripts,  up  to  the  throne. 

Then,  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name 
Down  to  the  stream  together  came ; 

But,  as  they  stopped  at  the  river’s  brink, 

I saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

“ Sprinkled  or  plunged  ? may  I ask  you,  friend. 
How  you  attained  to  life’s  great  end?  ” 

“ Thus , with  a few  drops  on  my  brow.” 

“ But  / have  been  dipped,  as  you’ll  see  me  now. 

“And  I really  think  it  will  hardly  do, 

As  I’m  ‘ close  communion,’  to  cross  with  you ; 
You’re  bound,  I know,  to  the  realms  of  bliss, 

But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I’ll  go  this.” 

Then  straightway  plunging  with  all  his  might. 
Away  to  the  left — his  friend  to  the  right, 

Apart  they  went  from  this  world  of  sin, 

But  at  last  together  they  entered  in. 

And  now,  when  the  river  was  rolling  on, 

A Presbyterian  Church  went  down ; 

Of  women  there  seemed  an  innumerable  throng. 
But  the  men  I could  count  as  they  passed  along. 

And  concerning  the  road,  they  could  never  agree 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  which  it  could  be, 

Nor  ever  a moment  paused  to  think 
That  both  would  lead  to  the  river’s  brink. 

And  a sound  of  murmuring,  long  and  loud, 

Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd ; 

“ You’re  in  the  old  way,  and  I’m  in  the  new; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true  ” — 

Or,  “ I’m  in  the  old  way,  and  you’re  in  the  new; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true.” 

But  the  brethren  only  seemed  to  speak : 

Modest  the  sisters  walked  and  meek, 

And  if  ever  one  of  them  chanced  to  say 
What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 

How  she  longed  to  pass  to  the  other  side, 

Nor  feared  to  cross  over  the  swelling  tide, 

A voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then, 

“ Let  no  one  speak  but  the  ‘ holy  men ; * 

For  have  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 

‘ Oh,  let  the  women  keep  silence  all  ? ’ ” 

I watched  them  long  in  my  curious  dream. 

Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream; 
Then,  just  as  I thought,  the  two  ways  met; 

But  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet, 

And  would  talk  on  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side — 

Side  by  side,  for  the  way  was  one; 

The  toilsome  journey  of  life  was  done ; 

And  all  who  in  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 

Came  out  alike  on  the  other  side. 


And  after  him,  with  his  MSS., 

Came  Wesley,  the  pattern  of  godliness  ; 

But  he  cried,  “ Dear  me  ! what  shall  I do  ? 

The  water  has  soaked  them  through  and  through.” 


No  forms  or  crosses  or  books  had  they ; 
No  gowns  of  silk  or  suits  of  gray  ; 

No  creeds  to  guide  them,  or  MSS. ; 

For  all  had  put  on  Christ’s  righteousness. 


THE  TEA  ILHAM’S  LESS  OH. 


6 1 


THE  BRAHMAN’S  LESSON. 

FROM  “ THE  INDEPENDENT.” 


NE  Summer  day  a far- 
mer and  his  son 
Were  working  wearily 
in  the  harvest  field. 
It  was  a lonesome 
place,  and  danger- 
ous ; 

For  now  was  come  the 
season  of  the  snakes, 
Whereof  the  deadliest, 
a great,  hooded 
Thing, 

Did  sting  the  young  man  so 
that  suddenly 

He  died;  for  remedy  in 
plant,  or  herb, 

Medicinal  root,  or  skill  of  leech,  is  none 
Against  the  venom  of  that  dreaded  death, 

That  darkens  the  eyes  at  noonday,  as  with  night, 
And  chills  the  blood  in  the  heart  that  beats  no  more. 
This  happened ; and  the  father  saw  his  son, 

Struck  out  of  life  so  early,  lie  there  dead, 

And  saw  the  gathering  of  the  hungry  ants, 

Nor  sighed,  nor  ceased  a moment  from  his  work. 
But  now  a Brahman  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 

And  saw  all  this,  but  understood  it  not. 

“ Who  is  that  man  there — dead  ? ” “ He  was  my 

son.” 

■**  Thy  son  ? Why  dost  thou  not  lament  him,  then  ? 

Hast  thou  no  love,  nor  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? ” 
“And  wherefore  sorrow  ? From  the  first  bright  hour 
When  he  is  born,  even  to  his  last  dark  day, 

Man’s  steps  are  deathward ; everything  he  does 
Sets  ever  that  way ; there  is  no  escape. 

For  the  well-doing  there  is  recompense, 

And  for  the  wicked  there  is  punishment. 

Of  what  avail,  when  they  are  gone,  are  tears? 

They  can  in  no  wise  help  us,  or  the  dead. 

But  thou  canst  help  me,  Brahman,  if  thou  wilt. 

Go  straightway  to  my  house,  and  tell  my  wife 
What  hath  befallen — that  my  son  is  dead; 

And  tell  her  to  prepare  my  noonday  meal.” 

4‘  What  manner  of  man  is  this  ? ” the  Brahman  thought 
Indignantly  : “ Insensate,  ignorant,  blind — 

He  has  no  human  feeling,  has  no  heart.” 

So  thinking,  he  drew  near  the  farmer’s  house, 

And  called  his  wife  : “ Woman,  thy  son  is  dead  ! 
Thy  husband  bade  me  tell  thee  this,  and  add 
That  he  is  ready  for  his  noonday  meal.” 

The  dead  man’s  mother  hearkened  to  his  words, 

As  calmly  as  the  sky  to  winds  or  waves. 

“ That  son  received  a passing  life  from  us — 

From  that  old  man,  his  father,  and  from  me, 

His  mother — but  I called  him  not  my  son. 

He  was  a traveller  halting  at  an  inn, 

Of  which  the  master  entertains  the  guests, 

But  not  detains.  He  rested  and  passed  on. 


So  is  it,  sir,  with  mothers,  and  with  sons. 

Why,  then,  should  I lament  what  was  to  be  ? ” 

Still  wondering,  the  troubled  Brahman  turned 
To  where  the  sister  of  the  dead  man  stood, 

Bright  in  the  lotus  bloom  of  womanhood. 

“ Thy  brother  is  dead.  Hast  thou  no  tears  for  him  ? ** 
She  hearkened  gravely,  as  the  forest  doth 
To  the  low  murmurs  of  the  populous  leaves. 

“ Sometimes,”  she  said,  “ a stalwart  woodman  goes. 
And  with  his  mighty  axe  hews  down  the  trees. 

And  binds  them  fast  together  in  a raft, 

And  in  a seaward  river  launches  them. 

Anon  the  wild  wind  rises,  and  the  waves, 

Lashed  in  tumultuous  warfare,  dash  the  raft 
Hither  and  thither,  till  it  breaks  asunder, 

And  the  swift  current,  separating  all, 

Whirls  all  on  ruinous  shores-,  to  meet  no  more. 
Such,  and  no  other,  was  my  brother’s  fate. 

Why,  then,  should  I lament  what  was  to  be  ? ” 

Wondering  still  more,  for  still  the  awfulness 
Of  death,  which  they  perceived  not,  was  to  him 
As  palpable  as  his  shadow  on  the  wall, 

The  Brahman  addressed  him  to  the  dead  man’s  wife ; 
“And  thou,  upon  whose  loving  breast  he  lay, 

Heart  answering  heart,  and  lips  that  breathed  in 
sleep 

Remembrance  of  endearments  without  end, 

What  wilt  thou  do  without  him  day  and  night?” 
She  hearkened  tenderly,  as  the  Summer  noon 
To  the  continuous  cooing  of  the  doves  : 

“As  when  two  birds,  that  fly  from  distant  lands, 

One  from  the  East,  the  other  from  the  South, 

They  meet,  and  look  into  each  other’s  eyes, 

And,  circling  round  each  other,  bill  to  bill, 

Seek  the  same  nest,  on  temple,  roof,  or  tree. 

And  rest  together  till  the  dawn  is  come ; 

Such  was  my  husband’s  happy  life,  and  mine. 

Was ; but  is  not ; for,  as  when  morning  breaks, 
Awakened,  the  coupled  birds  forsake  the  nest, 

And  fly  in  opposite  ways  to  seek  their  food — 

They,  if  it  be  their  destiny,  meet  again; 

If  not,  they  meet  no  more — we  meet  no  more. 
Why,  then,  should  I lament  what  was  to  be  ? ” 

Silenced  by  their  submission,  which  was  wise, 
Whether  foolish  heart  think  so  or  not, 

The  Brahman  watched  the  women  in  the  house, 

As  to  and  fro  their  slender  figures  moved 
Athwart  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the  door, 
While  they  prepared  the  farmer’s  noonday  meal ; 
And,  watching  them,  was  comforted  to  learn 
The  simple  secret  of  their  cheerful  faith — 

That  Death  the  natural  sequence  is  of  Life, 

And  no  more  dreadful  in  itself  than  Life. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddarg. 
Stamford ’,  Conn.y  Aug.  Stk,  1884. 


62 


THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS. 


THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS. 

DEMOREST’S  MONTHLY. 

OW  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Each  one  its  creed  in  music 
tells, 

In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as 
prayer ; 

And  I will  put  in  simple  rhyme 
The  language  of  the  golden 
chime ; 

My  happy  heart  with  rapture 
swells 

Responsive  to  the  bells,  sweet 
bells. 


“ In  deeds  of  love  excel ! excel ! ” 

Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a bell ; 

“ This  is  the  church  not  built  on  sands. 
Emblem  of  one  not  built  with  hands ; 

Its  forms  and  sacred  rites  revere, 

Come  worship  here  ! come  worship  here ! 

In  rituals  and  faith  excel ! ” 

Chimed  out  the  Episcopalian  bell. 

“ Oh,  heed  the  ancient  landmarks  well ! ” 

In  solemn  tones  exclaimed  a bell ; 

“ No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 
Can  change  the  just  eternal  plan  : 

With  God  there  can  be  nothing  new; 

Ignore  the  false,  embrace  the  true, 

While  all  is  well  ! is  well ! is  well ! ” 

Pealed  out  the  good  old  Dutch  church  belL 

“Ye  purifying  waters  swell ! ” 

In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a bell ; 

“ Though  faith  alone  in  Christ  can  save, 

Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 

To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  sacred  Scriptures  saith  : 

Oh,  swell ! ye  rising  waters,  swell ! ” 

Pealed  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell. 

“ Not  faith  alone,  but  works  as  well, 

Must  test  the  soul ! ” said  a soft  bell ; 

“ Come  here  and  cast  aside  your  load, 

And  work  your  way  along  the  road, 

With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 

And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began  ; 

Do  well ! do  well ! do  well ! do  well ! ” 

Rang  out  the  Unitarian  bell. 

“ Farewell ! farewell  ! base  world,  farewell ! ’* 
In  touching  tones  exclaimed  a bell ; 

“ Life  is  a boon,  to  mortals  given, 

To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  heaven  ; 

Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod, 

Come  here,  and  learn  the  way  to  God ; 

Say  to  the  world,  Farewell  ! farewell ! ” 
Pealed  forth  the  Presbyterian  bell. 


“ To  all,  the  truth,  we  tell ! we  tell ! ” 

Shouted  in  ecstasies  a bell ; 

“ Come,  all  ye  weary  wanderers,  see  ! 

Our  Lord  has  made  salvation  free  ! 

Repent,  believe,  have  faith,  and  then 
Be  saved,  and  praise  the  Lord,  Amen ! 

Salvation’s  free,  we  tell ! we  tell  1 ” 

Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 

“ In  after  life  there  is  no  hell ! ” 

In  raptures  rang  a cheerful  bell ; 

“ Look  up  to  heaven  this  holy  day, 

Where  angels  wait  to  lead  the  way ; 

There  are  no  fires,  no  fiends  to  blight 
The  future  life  ; be  just  and  right. 

No  hell ! no  hell ! no  hell ! no  hell ! ’ 9 
Rang  out  the  Universalist  bell. 

“ The  Pilgrim  Fathers  heeded  well 
My  cheerful  voice,”  pealed  forth  a bell ; 

“ No  fetters  here  to  clog  the  soul ; 

No  arbitrary  creeds  control 

The  free  heart  and  progressive  mind, 

That  leave  the  dusty  past  behind. 

Speed  well,  speed  well,  speed  well,  speed  well ! ** 
Pealed  out  the  Independent  bell. 

“ No  pope,  no  pope,  to  doom  to  hell ! ’* 

The  Protestant  rang  out  a bell ; 

“ Great  Luther  left  his  fiery  zeal, 

Within  the  hearts  that  truly  feel 
That  loyalty  to  God  will  be 
The  fealty  that  makes  men  free. 

No  images  where  incense  fell ! ” 

Rang  out  old  Martin  Luther’s  bell. 

“All  hail,  ye  saints  in  heaven  that  dwell 
Close  by  the  cross  ! ” exclaimed  a bell; 

“ Lean  o’er  the  battlements  of  bliss, 

And  deign  to  bless  a world  like  this ; 

Let  mortals  kneel  before  this  shrine — 

Adore  the  water  and  the  wine ! 

All  hail,  ye  saints,  the  chorus  swell ! ” 

Chimed  in  the  Roman  Catholic  bell. 

“ Ye  workers,  who  have  toiled  so  well 
To  save  the  race  ! ” said  a sweet  bell ; 

“ With  pledge,  and  badge,  and  banner,  come, 
Each  brave  heart  beating  like  a drum ; 

Be  royal  men  of  noble  deeds, 

For  love  is  holier  than  creeds  ; 

Drink  from  the  well,  the  well,  the  well ! ” 

In  rapture  rang  the  Temperance  bell. 

George  W.  Bungay. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  LIFE. 

AIR  goes  the  dancing  when  the  sitar’s  tune<£, 
Tune  us  the  sitar  neither  low  nor  high, 
And  we  will  dance  away  the  hearts  of  men. 

The  string  o’erstretched  breaks,  and  the  music  flies ; 
The  string  o’erslack  is  dumb,  and  music  dies; 

Tune  us  the  sitar  neither  low  nbr  high. 

Edwin  Arnold — “ The  Light  of  Asia.* 


How  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  bells ! 
Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells, 


In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 

As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer." 

(63) 


64 


LYRIC  OF  ACTION . 


LYRIC  OF  ACTION. 


IS  the  part  of  a coward  to  brood 

O’er  the  past  that  is  withered  and  dead ; 
What  though  the  heart’s  roses  are  ashes  and 
dust? 

What  though  the  heart’s  music  be  fled  ? 

Still  shine  the  grand  heavens  o’erhead, 

Whence  the  voice  of  an  angel  thrills  clear  on  the  soul, 
Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press  on  to  the  goal ! ” 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy  youth 
Are  a burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 

What  hope  can  rebloom  on  the  desolate  waste 
Of  a jealous  and  craven  despair? 

Down,  down  with  the  fetters  of  fear ! 

In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  manhood  arise, 

With  the  faith  that  illumes  and  the  will  that  defies. 


“ Too  late  /”  through  God’s  infinite  world, 

From  his  throne  to  life’s  nethermost  fires — 

“ Too  late  /”  is  a phantom  that  flies  at  the  dawn 
Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  aspires. 

If  pure  thou  hast  made  thy  desires, 

There’s  no  height  the  strong  winds  of  immortals  may 
gain 

Which  in  striving  to  reach  thou  shalt  strive  for  in  vain. 

Then  up  to  the  contest  with  fate, 

Unbound  by  the  past,  which  is  dead ! 

What  though  the  heart’s  roses  are  ashes  and  dust  ? 
What  though  the  heart’s  music  be  fled? 

Still  shine  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead; 

And  sublime  as  the  angel  who  rules  in  the  sun 
Beams  the  promise  of  peace  when  the  conflict  is  won  1 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  HEAVEN. 

OTHER,  home  and  heaven,  says  a writer,  are  three  of  the 
most  beautiful  words  in  the  English  language.  And  truly 
I think  that  they  may  well  be  called  so.  What  word 
strikes  so  forcibly  upon  the  heart  as  mother?  Coming 
from  childhood’s  sunny  lips,  it  has  a peculiar  charm,  for 
it  speaks  of  one  to  whom  they  look  and  trust  for  protec- 
tion. 

A mother  is  the  truest  friend  we  have.  When  trials 
heavy  and  sudden  fall  upon  us ; when  adversity  takes 
the  place  of  prosperity;  when  friends,  who  rejoiced  with 
us  in  our  sunshine,  desert  us  when  troubles  thicken  around 
us,  still  will  she  cling  to  us,  and  endeavor  by  her  kind 
precepts  and  counsels  to  dissipate  the  clouds  of  darkness 
and  cause  peace  to  return  to  our  hearts. 

The  kind  voice  of  a mother  has  often  been  the  means  of  reclaiming  an  erring  one 
from  the  path  of  wickedness  to  a life  of  happiness  and  prosperity. 

The  lonely  convict,  immured  in  his  dreary  cell,  thinks  of  the  innocent  days  of  his 
childhood,  and  feels  that  though  other  friends  forsake  him,  he  has  still  a guardian 
angel  watching  over  him,  and  that,  however  dark  his  sins  may  have  been,  they  have 
all  been  forgiven  and  forgotten  by  her. 

Mother  is  indeed  a sweet  name,  and  her  station  is  indeed  a holy  one,  for  in  her 
hands  are  placed  minds  to  be  moulded  almost  at  her  will — aye,  fitted  to  shine,  not 
much,  it  is  true,  on  earth,  compared,  if  taught  aright,  with  the  dazzling  splendor 
which  awaits  them  in  heaven. 

Home  ! How  often  we  hear  persons  speak  of  the  home  of  their  childhood  ! Their 
minds  seem  to  delight  in  dwelling  upon  the  recollections  of  joyous  days  spent  be- 


66 


MOTHER , HOME  AND  HEAVEN 


neath  the  parental  roof,  when  their  young  and  happy  hearts  were  as  light  and  free 
as  the  birds  who  made  the  woods  resound  with  the  melody  of  their  cheerful  voices. 
What  a blessing  it  is,  when  weary  with  care  and  burdened  with  sorrow,  to  have  a 
home  to  which  we  can  go,  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  friends  we  love,  forget  our 
troubles  and  dwell  in  peace  and  quietness ! 

Heaven ! that  land  of  quiet  rest  towards  which  those  who,  worn  down  and  tired 
with  the  toils  of  earth,  direct  their  frail  barks  over  the  troubled  waters  of  life,  and 
after  a long  and  dangerous  passage  find  it  safe  in  the  haven  of  eternal  bliss.  Heaven 
is  the  home  that  awaits  us  beyond  the  grave.  There  the  friendships  formed  on  earth 
and  which  cruel  death  has  severed  are  never  more  to  be  broken;  and  parted  friends 
shall  meet  again,  never  more  to  be  separated. 

It  is  an  inspiring  hope  that  when  we  separate  here  on  earth  at  the  summons  of  death’s 
angel,  and  when  a few  more  years  have  rolled  over  the  heads  of  those  remaining,  if 
“ faithful  unto  death,”  we  shall  meet  again  in  heaven,  our  eternal  home , there  to 
dwell  in  the  presence  of  our  heavenly  Father,  and  go  no  more  out  forever. 


HERE  are  three  words  that  sweetly  blend, 
That  on  the  heart  are  graven ; 

A precious,  soothing  balm  they  lend— 
They’re  mother,  home  and  heaven  ! 

They  twine  a wreath  of  beauteous  flowers, 
Which,  placed  on  memory’s  urn, 

Will  e’en  the  longest,  gloomiest  hours 
' To  golden  sunlight  turn  ! 

They  form  a chain  whose  every  link 
Is  free  from  base  alloy ; 


A stream  where  whosoever  drinks 
Will  find  refreshing  joy ! 

They  build  an  altar  where  each  day 
Love’s  offering  is  renewed ; 

And  peace  illumes  with  genial  ray 
Life’s  darkened  solitude ! 

If  from  our  side  the  first  has  fled. 

And  home  be  but  a name, 

Let’s  strive  the  narrow  path  to  tread, 

That  we  the  last  may  gain  ! 

Mary  J.  Muckle. 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 


67 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 


HE  wind  blew  wide  the  casement,  and 
within — 

It  was  the  loveliest  picture  ! — a sweet  child 
Lay  in  its  mother’s  arms,  and  drew  its  life, 
In  pauses,  from  the  fountain — the  white  round 
Part  shaded  by  loose  tresses,  soft  and  dark, 
Concealing,  but  still  showing,  the  fair  realm 
Of  so  much  rapture,  as  green  shadowing  trees 
With  beauty  shrpud  the  brooklet.  The  red  lips 
Were  parted,  and  the  cheek  upon  the  breast 
Lay  close,  and,  like  the  young  leaf  of  the  flower, 
Wore  the  same  color,  rich  and  warm  and  fresh : — 
And  such  alone  are  beautiful.  Its  eye, 

A full  blue  gem,  most  exquisitely  set, 

Looked  archly  on  its  world — the  little  imp, 


As  if  it  knew  even  then  that  such  a wreath 
Were  not  for  all  ; and  with  its  playful  hands 
It  drew  aside  the  robe  that  hid  its  realm, 

And  peeped  and  laughed  aloud,  and  so  it  laid 
Its  head  upon  the  shrine  of  such  pure  joys. 

And,  laughing,  slept.  And  while  it  slept,  the  tears 
Of  the  sweet  mother  fell  upon  its  cheek — 

Tears  such  as  fall  from  April  skies,  and  bring 
The  sunlight  after.  They  were  tears  of  joy ; 

And  the  true  heart  of  that  young  mother  then 
Grew  lighter,  and  she  sang  unconsciously 
The  silliest  ballad-song  that  ever  yet 
Subdued  the  nursery’s  voices,  and  brought  sleep 
To  fold  her  sabbath  wings  above  its  couch. 

William  Gilmore  Simmu. 


68 


GIVE  ME  THREE  GRAINS  OF  CORN , MOTHER. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

FROM  “ HEBREW  MELODIES.” 

[E  Assyrian  came  down  like 
the  wolf  on  the  fold, 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleam- 
ing in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears 
was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls 
nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest 
when  summer  is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners 
at  sunset  were  seen : 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest 
when  autumn  hath  blown. 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the 
blast, 

And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew 
still  ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 

But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his 
pride : 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  theturf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 

The  lances  uplifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 

And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 

And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  1 

Lord  Byron. 


HARK  TO  THE  SHOUTING  WIND. 

ARK  to  the  shouting  Wind  ! 

Hark  to  the  flying  Rain  ! 

And  I care  not  though  I never  see 
A bright  blue  sky  again. 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  breast  to-day 
That  are  not  for  human  speech  ; 

But  I hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 

And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

And,  oh,  to  be  with  that  ship 

That  I watch  through  the  blinding  brine  ! 
Oh,  Wind  ! for  thy  sweep  of  land  and  sea ! 
Oh,  Sea ! for  a voice  like  thine  ! 

Shout  on,  thou  pitiless  Wind, 

To  the  frightened  and  flying  Rain  ! 

I care  not  though  I never  see 
A calm,  blue  sky  again. 

Henry  Timrod. 


GIVE  ME  THREE  GRAINS  OF  CORN, 
MOTHER. 

THE  IRISH  FAMINE. 

IVE  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother— 
Only  three  grains  of  corn  ; 

It  will  keep  the  little  life  I have 
Till  the  coming  of  the  morn. 

I am  dying  of  hunger  and  cold,  mother — 

Dying  of  hunger  and  cold ; 

And  half  the  agony  of  such  a death 
My  lips  have  never  told. 

It  has  gnawed  like  a wolf  at  my  heart,  mother — 
A wolf  that  is  fierce  for  blood ; 

All  the  livelong  day,  and  the  night  beside, 
Gnawing  for  lack  of  food. 

I dreamed  of  bread  in  my  sleep,  mother, 

And  the  sight  was  heaven  to  See ; 

I awoke  with  an  eager,  famishing  lip. 

But  you  had  no  bread  for  me. 

How  could  I look  to  you.  mother — 

How  could  I look  to  you 
For  bread  to  give  to  your  starving  boy. 

When  you  were  starving  too  ? 

For  I read  the  famine  in  your  cheek, 

And  in  your  eyes  so  wild, 

And  I felt  it  in  your  bony  hand 
As  you  laid  it  on  your  child. 

The  queen  has  lands  and  gold,  mother — 

The  queen  has  lands  and  gold, 

While  you  are  forced  to  your  empty  breast 
A skeleton  babe  to  hold — 

A babe  that  is  dying  of  want,  mother. 

As  I am  dying  now, 

With  a ghastly  look  in  its  sunken  eye, 

And  famine  upon  its  brow. 

What  has  poor  Ireland  done,  mother — 

What  has  poor  Ireland  done, 

That  the  world  looks  on  and  sees  us  starve. 
Perishing  one  by  one  ? 

Do  the  men  of  England  care  not,  mother — 

The  great  men  and  the  high — 

For  the  suffering  sons  of  Erin’s  isle, 

Whether  they  live  or  die  ? 

There  is  many  a brave  heart  here,  mother, 

Dying  of  want  and  cold, 

While  only  across  the  channel,  mother, 

Are  many  that  roll  in  gold ; 

There  are  rich  and  proud  men  there,  mother. 

With  wondrous  wealth  to  view, 

And  the  bread  they  fling  to  their  dogs  to-night 
Would  give  life  to  me  and  you. 

Come  nearer  to  my  side,  mother, 

Come  nearer  to  my  side, 

And  hold  me  fondly  as  you  held 
My  father  when  he  died  ; 

Quick  ! for  I cannot  see  you,  mother. 

My  breath  is  almost  gone  ; 

Mother ! dear  mother ! ere  I die, 

Give  me  three  grains  of  corn. 

Amelia  Blandford  Edwards. 


REGRET. 


69 


REGRET. 

SHELTERING  ARMS. 


F I had  known,  oh,  loyal  heart, 

When,  hand  to  hand,  we  said  farewell, 
How  for  all  time  our  paths  would  part, 
What  shadow  o’er  our  friendship  fell, 

I should  have  clasped  your  hands  so  close 
In  the  warm  pressure  of  my  own 
That  memory  still  would  keep  its  grasp — 

If  I had  known. 


If  I had  known,  when  far  and  wide 
We  loitered  through  the  summer  land, 
What  Presence  wandered  by  our  side. 
And  o’er  you  stretched  its  awful  hand, 

I should  have  hushed  my  careless  speech. 
To  listen,  dear,  to  every  tone 
That  from  your  lips  fell  low  and  sweet — 
If  I had  known. 


70 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 


If  I had  known,  when  your  kind  eyes 
Met  mine  in  parting,  true  and  sad — 
Eyes  gravely  tender,  gently  wise. 

And  earnest,  rather,  more  than  glad — 
How  soon  the  lids  would  lie  above, 

As  cold  and  white  as  sculptured  stone, 
l should  have  treasured  every  glance — 

If  I had  known. 

If  I had  known  how,  from  the  strife 
Of  fears,  hopes,  passions,  here  below, 
Unto  a purer,  higher  life 

That  you  were  called,  oh  ! friend,  to  go, 
I should  have  stayed  my  foolish  tears, 

And  hushed  each  idle  sigh  and  moan, 

To  bid  you  last  a long  godspeed — 

If  I had  known. 


O God,  if  souls  as  pure  as  these 

Need  daily  mercy  from  Thy  throne — 

If  she  upon  her  bended  knee, 

Our  holiest  and  our  purest'  one — 

She  with  a face  so  clear  and  bright 
We  deem  her  some  stray  child  of  light ; 

If  she,  with  these  soft  eyes  and  tears, 

Day  after  day  in  her  young  years, 

Must  kneel  and  pray  for  grace  from  Thee, 
How  hardly  if  she  win  not  heaven 
Will  our  wild  errors  be  forgiven  ! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


MY  MOTHER’S  BIBLE. 


If  I had  known  to  what  strange  place, 

What  mystic,  distant,  silent  shore, 

You  calmly  turned  your  steadfast  face. 

What  time  your  footsteps  left  my  door, 

I should  have  forged  a golden  link 
To  bind  the  hearts  so  constant  grown, 

And  kept  it  constant  ever  there — 

If  I had  known. 

If  I had  known  that  until  Death 
Shall  with  his  finger  touch  my  brow, 

And  still  the  quickening  of  the  breath 
That  stirs  with  life’s  full  meaning  now, 

So  long  my  feet  must  tread  the  way 
Of  our  accustomed  paths  alone, 

I should  have  prized  your  presence  more — 
If  I had  known. 

If  I had  known  how  soon  for  you 
Drew  near  the  ending  of  the  fight, 

And  on  your  vision,  fair  and  new, 

Eternal  peace  dawned  into  sight, 

I should  have  begged,  as  love’s  last  gift, 

That  you,  before  God’s  great  white  throne, 
Would  pray  for  your  poor  friend  on  earth — 
If  I had  known. 


THE  MAIDEN’S  PRAYER. 

HE  rose  from  her  delicious  sleep 

And  put  away  her  soft  brown  hair, 

And  in  a tone  as  low  and  deep 

As  love’s  first  whisper,  breathed  a prayer ; 
Her  snow-white  hands  together  pressed, 

Her  blue  eyes  sheltered  in  the  lid, 

The  folded  linen  on  her  breast 

Just  swelling  with  the  charms  it  hid. 


And  from  her  long  and  flowing  dress 
Escaped  a bare  and  snowy  foot, 

Whose  step  upon  the  earth  did  press 
Like  a sweet  snow-flake  soft  and  mute ; 
And  then  from  slumber  chaste  and  warm, 
Like  a young  spirit  fresh  from  heaven, 
She  bowed  that  young  and  matchless  form, 
And  humbly  prayed  to  be  forgiven. 


HIS  book  is  all  that’s  left  me 
now, 

Tears  will  unbidden  start ; 
With  faltering  lip  and  throb- 
bing brow, 

I press  it  to  my  heart. 

For  many  generations  past, 
Here  is  our  family  tree ; 
My  mother’s  hands  this  Bi- 
ble clasped ; 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah ! well  do  I remember 
those 

Whose  names  these  rec- 
ords bear, 

Who  round  the  hearthstone 
used  to  close 
After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these 
pages  said, 

In  tones  my  heart  would 
thrill ! 

Though  they  are  with  the 
silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still  I 

My  father  read  this  holy 
book 

To  brothers,  sisters,  dear ; 

How  calm  was  my  poor  mother’s  look, 

Who  loved  God’s  word  to  hear ! 

Her  angel  face — I see  it  yet ! 

What  thronging  memories  come  ! 

Again  that  little  group  is  met 
Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew. 

Thy  constancy  I’ve  tried ; 

When  all  were  false  I found  thee  true. 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 

The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 
That  could  this  volume  buy ; 

In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 

George  P.  Morris. 


SYMPATH i . 


71 


UNCLE  REMUS’S  REVIVAL  HYMN. 

ATLANTA  CONSTITUTION. 

H ! whar  shall  we  go  w’en  de  great  day 
comes, 

Wid  de  bl owin’  uv  de  trumpets  an’  de 
bangin’  uv  de  drums  ? 

How  many  po’  sinners  ’ll  be  cotched  out 
late, 

An’  fine  no  latch  to  the  goldin  gate? 

No  use  fer  to  wait  ’twell  to-morrow — 

De  sun  musn’t  set  on  yo’  sorrer. 

Sin’s  ez  sharp  ez  a bamboo  brier — 

O Lord  ! fetch  the  mo’ners  up  higher! 

W’en  de  nashuns  uv  de  earf  is  a stannin’  all  aroun’, 
Who’s  a gwine  ter  be  choosen  fer  ter  war  de  Glory 
crown  ? 

Who’s  a gwine  fer  ter  stan’  stiff-kneed  an’  bol’, 

An’  answer  to  dere  name  at  de  callin’  uv  de  roll  ? 
You  better  come  now  ef  you  cornin’ — - 
Ole  Satan  is  loose  an’s  a bummin’ — 

De  weels  uv  destrucshun  is  a hummin’ — 

Oh,  come  along  sinner,  ef  you  cornin’. 

De  song  uv  salvation  is  a mighty  sweet  song, 

An’  de  Pairadise  win’  bio’  fur  an’  bio’  strong; 

An’  Aberham’s  buzzum  is  saf’  an’  it’s  wide, 

An’  dat’s  de  place  where  de  sinner  orter  hide. 

No  use  ter  be  stoppin’  an’  a lookin’, 

Ef  you  fool  wid  Satan  you’ll  git  took  in, 
You’ll  hang  on  de  edge  an’  git  shook  in, 

Ef  you  keep  on  a stoppin’  an’  a lookin’. 

De  time  is  right  now  an’  dis  here’s  de  place — 

Let  de  salvashun  sun  shine  squar’  in  yo’  face, 

Fight  de  battles  uv  de  Lord,  fight  soon  an’  fight  late, 
An’  you’ll  alters  fine  a latch  on  de  goldin  gate. 

No  use  fer  ter  wait  ’twell  to-morrer — 

De  sun  mus’nt  set  on  yo’  sorrer. 

Sin’s  ez  sharp  ez  a bamboo  brier — 

Ax  d*  Lord  fer  ter  fetch  you  up  higher. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris. 


REBECCA’S  HYMN. 

FROM  “IVANHOE.” 

HEN  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 
Her  fathers’  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  : 

By  night,  Arabia’s  crimsoned  sands 
Returned  the  fiery  column’s  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise ; 

The  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen, 

And  Zion’s  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest’s  and  warrior’s  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  thy  ways, 

And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day 
Be  thoughts  of  thee  a cloudy  screen 
To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 

Be  thou  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A burning  and  a shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams, 

The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentile’s  scorn; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 

But  thou  hast  said,  “The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I will  not  prize ; 

A contrite  heart,  an  humble  thought, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice.” 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SYMPATHY. 

'LL  are  affected  with  delightiul  sensations  when  the  inani- 
mate parts  of  the  creation — the  meadows,  flowers,  and 
trees — are  in  a flourishing  state.  There  must  be  some 
rooted  melancholy  in  the  heart,  when  all  nature  appears 
smiling  about  us,  to  hinder  us  from  corresponding  with 
the  rest  of  the  creation,  and  joining  in  the  universal  chorus 
of  joy.  But  if  meadows  and  trees  in  their  cheerful  ver- 
dure, if  flowers  in  their  bloom,  and  all  the  vegetable  parts 
of  the  creation  in  their  most  advantageous  dress,  can  in- 
spire gladness  into  the  heart,  and  drive  away  all  sadness 
but  despair;  to  see  the  rational  creation  happy  and  flour- 
ishing, ought  to  give  us  a pleasure  as  much  superior  as 
the  latter  is  to  the  former  in  the  scale  of  beings.  But  the  pleasure  is  still  height- 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 


7 2 

ened,  if  we  ourselves  have  been  instrumental  in  contributing  to  the  happiness  of  out 
fellow-creatures,  if  we  have  helped  to  raise  a heart  drooping  beneath  the  weight  of 
grief,  and  revived  that  barren  and  dry  land,  where  no  water  was,  with  refreshing 
showers  of  love  and  kindness.  Seed. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 


OW  dear  to 
this  heart 
are  the 
scenes  of 
my  child- 
hood, 

When  fond  recol- 
lection presents 
them  to  view  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew; 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood 
by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e’en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I hail  as  a treasure ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 

I found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 

How  ardent  I seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing ! 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well— 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 


As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father’s  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

Samuel  Woodworth. 


RIPE  GRAIN. 

Dora  Read  Goodale  is  the  youngest  of  two  precocious  poets* 
sisters,  who  have  delighted  many  a reader  of  verse.  Dora  was 
born  October  29th,  1866,  and  her  sister,  Elaine,  October  9th, 
1863.  Their  home,  at  South  Egremont,  Mass.,  is  called  Sky 
Farm.  Both  of  the  parents  possess  the  poetic  gift,  but  the 
songs  of  the  children  have  been  as  unprompted  and  spontaneous 
as  the  singing  of  the  young  thrush. 

STILL,  white  face  of 
perfect  peace, 
Untouched  by  passion,, 
freed  from  pain — 
He  who  ordained  that 
work  should  cease 
Took  to  Himself  the 
ripened  grain. 

O noble  face ! your 
beauty  bears 
The  glory  that  is 
wrung  from  pah;-— - 
The  high,  celestial  beauty  wears 
Of  finished  work,  of  ripened  grain. 


How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips! 

Not  a full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 

And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 


Of  human  care  you  left  no  trace, 

No  lightest  trace  of  grief  or  pain — 

On  earth  an  empty  form  and  face — 

In  Heaven  stands  the  ripened  grain. 

Dora  Read  Goodale. 


A DYING  HYMN. 


73 


A DYING  HYMN. 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


The  last  stanza  written  by  Alice  Cary,  was  written  on  her 
death-bed,  with  trembling,  uncertain  hand,  the  pen  falling  from 
her  fingers  as  the  long  shadows  of  eternity  were  stealing  over 
her.  The  stanza  was  this  : 

“ As  the  poor  panting  hart  to  the  water-brook  runs — 

As  the  water-brook  runs  to  the  sea — 

So  earth’s  fainting  daughters  and  famishing  sons. 

Oh,  Fountain  of  Love,  run  to  Thee.” 

Then  in  her  agony,  so  near  her  end,  she  repeated  the  follow- 
ing, written  some  years  before,  as  if  prescient  of  her  last  hour  : 

ARTH  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 
Recedes,  and  fades  away; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills ! 
Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way! 


This  ode  was  partly  suggested  by  the  following  lines,  written 
by  the  Emperor  Adrian  : 

ADRIANI  MORIENTIS — AD  ANIMAM  SUAM. 

Animula,  vagula,  blandula, 

Hospes  Comesque  Corporis, 

Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca, 

Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula? 

Nec,  ut  soles,  dabis  joca. 

The  poet’s  lines  were  composed  at  the  request  af  Steele,  who 
wrote  : “ This  is  to  desire  of  you  that  you  would  please  to 
make  an  ode  as  of  a cheerful,  dying  spirit ; that  is  to  say,  the 
Emperor  Adrian’s  animula  vagula  put  into  two  or  three  stan- 
zas for  music.”  Pope  replied  with  the  three  stanzas  below, 
and  says  to  Steele  in  a letter:  “ You  have  it,  as  Cowley  calls 
it,  warm  from  the  brain.  It  came  to  me  the  first  moment  I 
waked  this  morning.” 


My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 

The  shadows  that  I feared  so  long, 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 

The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 

I feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 
The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a courage  gives 
Low  as  the  grave  to  go ; 

I know  that  my  Redeemer  lives : 

That  I shall  live  I know. 

The  palace  walls  I almost  see, 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King ; 

Oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

Oh,  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 

Alice  Cary. 


ITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 


Hark  ! they  whisper ; angels  say. 

Sister  spirit,  come  away. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 

Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes;  it  disappears; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes ; my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 

Lend,  lend  your  wings  ! I mount ! I fly  I 
Oh,  grave  ! where  is  thy  victory  ? 

Oh,  death  ! where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Alexander  Pope. 


A PRAYER. 


EAD,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling 
gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on  ; 

The  night  is  dark,  and  I am  far  away 
from  home, 

Lead  thou  me  on ; 

Keep  thou  my  feel — I do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ; one  step  enough  for  me. 

I was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 
Shouldst  lead  me  on  ; 

I loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path,  but  now 
Lead  thou  me  on. 

I loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 

Pride  ruled  my  will ; remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  thy  power  has  blessed  me,  sure  it  still 
Will  lead  me  on 

O’er  moor  and  fen,  o’er  crag  and  torrent,  till 
The  night  is  gone  ; 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Whom  I have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


CHRIST’S  PRESENCE  IN  THE  HOUSE, 

EAR  Friend,  whose  presence  in  the  house,, 
Whose  gracious  word  benign, 

Could  once  at  Cana’s  wedding  feast 
Turn  water  into  wine  ; 

Come  visit  us,  and  when  dull  work 
Grows  weary,  line  on  line, 

Revive  our  souls,  and  make  us  see 
Life’s  water  glow  as  wine. 

Gay  mirth  shall  deepen  into  joy, 

Earth’s  hopes  shall  grow  divine, 

When  Jesus  visits  us,  to  turn 
Life’s  waters  into  wine. 

The  social  talk,  the  evening  fire, 

The  homely  household  shrine, 

Shall  glow  with  angels’  visits  when 
The  Lord  pours  out  the  wine. 

For  when  self-seeking  turns  to  love, 

Which  knows  not  mine  and  thine, 

The  miracle  is  wrought, 

The  water  changed  to  wine. 

James  Freeman  Clarke. 


74 


ST.  PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 


ST.  PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 

The  Reverend  Henry  Hart  Milman,  late  dean  of  Saint  Paul’s,  was  the  son  of  an  eminent  physician.  Sir  Francis  Milman,  and 
passed  through  his  university  education  at  Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  with  distinguished  honors.  He  died  Sept,  24,  1868.  Dean 
Milman's  poetical  works  are  full  of  grace  : his  tragedy  of  “ Fazio  ” is  perhaps  the  most  finished  dramatic  production  of  our  times, 
though  others  may  have  surpassed  it  in  force  of  character  and  stage  effect.  His  “ Fall  of  Jerusalem  ” is  a truly  beautiful  concep- 
tion, and  some  of  its  lyrical  pieces  remarkable  for  tenderness  and  sublimity.  As  a prose  writer,  Mr.  Milman  may  justly  take  rank 
amongst  “ the  best  authors.”  The  following  extract  is  from  his  learned  and  unaffectedly  pious  “ History  of  Christianity  ” 

T Athens,  at  once  the  centre  and  capital  of  the  Greek  philo- 
sophy and  heathen  superstition,  takes  place  the  first 
public  and  direct  conflict  between  Christianity  and  Pa- 
ganism. Up  to  this  time  there  is  no  account  of  any  one 
of  the  apostles  taking  his  station  in  the  public  street  or 
market-place,  and  addressing  the  general  multitude. 
Their  place  of  teaching  had  invariably  been  the  syna- 
gogue of  their  nation,  or,  as  at  Philippi,  the  neighborhood 
of  their  customary  place  of  worship.  Here,  however, 
Paul  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  synagogue,  or  to 
the  society  of  his  countrymen  and  their  proselytes.  He 
takes  his  stand  in  the  public  market-place,  (probably  not 
the  Ceramicus,  but  the  Eretriac  Forum,)  which,  in  the  reign  of  Augustus,  had  begun 
to  be  more  frequented,  and  at  the  top  of  which  was  the  famous  portico  from  which 
the  Stoics  assumed  their  name.  In  Athens,  the  appearance  of  a new  public  teacher, 
instead  of  offending  the  popular  feeling,  was  too  familiar  to  excite  astonishment,  and 
was  rather  welcomed  as  promising  some  fresh  intellectual  excitement.  In  Athens, 
hospitable  to  all  religions  and  all  opinions,  the  foreign  and  Asiatic  appearance,  and 
possibly  the  less  polished  tone  and  dialect  of  Paul,  would  only  awaken  the  stronger 
curiosity.  Though  they  affect  at  first  (probably  the  philosophic  part  of  his  hearers) 
to  treat  him  as  an  idle  “ babbler,”  and  others  (the  vulgar,  alarmed  for  the  honor  of 
their  deities)  supposed  that  he  was  about  to  introduce  some  new  religious  worship 
which  might  endanger  the  supremacy  of  their  own  tutelar  divinities,  he  is  conveyed, 
not  without  respect,  to  a still  more  public  and  commodious  place,  from  whence  he 
may  explain  his  doctrines  to  a numerous  assembly  without  disturbance.  On  the 
Areopagus  the  Christian  leader  takes  his  stand,  surrounded  on  every  side  with  what- 
ever was  noble,  beautiful,  and  intellectual  in  the  older  world — temples,  of  which  the 
materials  were  only  surpassed  by  the  architectural  grace  and  majesty;  statues,  in 
which  the  ideal  anthropomorphism  of  the  Greeks  had  almost  elevated  the  popular 
notions  of  the  Deity,  by  embodying  it  in  human  forms  of  such  exquisite  perfection ; 
public  edifices,  where  the  civil  interests  of  man  had  been  discussed  with  the  acute- 
ness and  versatility  of  the  highest  Grecian  intellect,  in  all  the  purity  of  the  inimitable 
Attic  dialect,  when  oratory  had  obtained  its  highest  triumphs  by  “ wielding  at 
will  the  fierce  democracy ; ” the  walks  of  the  philosophers,  who  unquestionably, 
by  elevating  the  human  mind  to  an  appetite  for  new  and  nobler  knowledge,  had 
prepared  the  way  for  a loftier  and  purer  religion.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  ele- 


ST.  PAUL  AT  A THENS. 


7 5 


vating  associations,  to  which  the  student  of  Grecian  literature  in  Tarsus,  the  reader 
of  Menander  and  of  the  Greek  philosophical  poets,  could  scarcely  be  entirely  dead 
or  ignorant,  that  Paul  stands  forth  to  proclaim  the  lowly  yet  authoritative  religion  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth.  His  audience  was  chiefly  formed  from  the  two  prevailing  sects, 
the  Stoics  and  Epicureans,  with  the  populace,  the  worshippers  of  the  established 
religion.  In  his  discourse,  the  heads  of  which  are  related  by  St.  Luke,  Paul,  with 
singular  felicity,  touches  on  the  peculiar  opinions  of  each  class  among  his  hearers ; 
he  expands  the  popular  religion  into  a higher  philosophy,  he  imbues  philosophy 
with  a profound  sentiment  of  religion. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  examine  with  the  utmost  interest  the  whole  course  of  this 
(if  we  consider  its  remote  consequences,  and  suppose  it  the  first  full  and  public  ar- 
gument of  Christianity  against  the  heathen  religion  and  philosophy)  perhaps  the 
most  extensively  and  permanently  effective  oration  ever  uttered  by  man.  We  may 
contemplate  Paul  as  the  representative  of  Christianity,  in  the  presence,  as  it  were, 
of  the  concentrated  religion  of  Greece,  and  of  the  spirits,  if  we  may  so  speak,  of 
Socrates,  and  Plato,  and  Zeno.  The  opening  of  the  apostle’s  speech  is  according  to 
those  most  perfect  rules  of  art  which  are  but  the  expressions  of  the  general  senti- 
ments of  nature.  It  is  calm,  temperate,  conciliatory.  It  is  no  fierce  denunciation  of 
idolatry,  no  contemptuous  disdain  of  the  prevalent  philosophic  opinions ; it  has 
nothing  of  the  sternness  of  the  ancient  Jewish  prophet,  nor  the  taunting  defiance  of 
the  later  Christian  polemic.  “Already  the  religious  people  of  Athens  had,  unknow- 
ingly indeed,  worshipped  the  universal  Deity,  for  they  had  an  altar  to  the  unknown 
God.  The  nature,  the  attributes  of  this  sublimer  Being,  hitherto  adored  in  ignorant 
and  unintelligent  homage,  he  came  to  unfold.  This  God  rose  far  above  the  popular 
notion ; He  could  not  be  confined  in  altar  or  temple,  or  represented  by  any  visible 
image.  He  was  the  universal  Father  of  mankind,  even  of  the  earth-born  Athenians, 
who  boasted  that  they  were  of  an  older  race  than  the  other  families  of  man,  and 
coeval  with  the  world  itself.  He  was  the  fountain  of  life,  which  pervaded  and  sus- 
tained the  universe;  He  had  assigned  their  separate  dwellings  to  the  separate  fami- 
lies of  man.”  Up  to  a certain  point  in  this  higher  view  of  the  Supreme  Being,  the 
philosopher  of  the  Garden  as  well  as  of  the  Porch  might  listen  with  wonder  and 
admiration.  It  soared,  indeed,  high  above  the  vulgar  religion ; but  in  the  lofty  and 
serene  Deity,  who  disdained  to  dwell  in  the  earthly  temple,  and  needed  nothing 
from  the  hand  of  man,  the  Epicurean  might  almost  suppose  that  he  heard  the  lan- 
guage of  his  own  teacher.  But  the  next  sentence,  which  asserted  the  providence 
of  God  as  the  active  creative  energy — as  the  conservative,  the  ruling,  the  ordaining 
principle — annihilated  at  once  the  atomic  theory  and  the  government  of  blind 
chance,  to  which  Epicurus  ascribed  the  origin  and  preservation  of  the  universe. 
“ This  high  and  impressive  Deity,  who  dwelt  aloof  in  serene  and  majestic  superiority 
to  all  want,  was  perceptible  in  some  mysterious  manner  by  man ; His  all-pervading 
providence  comprehended  the  whole  human  race  ; man  was  in  constant  union  with 
the  Deity,  as  an  offspring  with  its  parent.”  And  still  the  Stoic  might  applaud  with 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 


76 


complacent  satisfaction  the  ardent  words  of  the  apostle ; he  might  approve  the  lofty 
condemnation  of  idolatry.  “ We,  thus  of  divine  descent,  ought  to  think  more  nobly 
of  our  Universal  Father,  than  to  suppose  that  the  godhead  is  like  unto  gold,  or 
silver,  or  stone  graven  by  art  or  man’s  device.”  But  this  divine  Providence  was  far 
different  from  the  stern  and  all-controlling  necessity,  the  inexorable  fatalism  of  the* 
Stoic  system.  While  the  moral  value  of  human  action  was  recognized  by  the  sol- 
emn retributive  judgment  to  be  passed  on  all  mankind,  the  dignity  of  Stoic  virtue 
was  lowered  by  the  general  demand  of  repentance.  The  perfect  man,  the  moral 
king,  was  deposed,  as  it  were,  and  abased  to  the  general  level ; he  had  to  learn 
new  lessons  in  the  school  of  Christ,  lessons  of  humility  and  conscious  deficiency,  the 
most  directly  opposed  to  the  principles  and  the  sentiments  of  his  philosophy.  The 
great  Christian  doctrine  of  the  resurrection  closed  the  speech  of  Paul. 

Milman. 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 


THE  snow,  the  beau- 
tiful snow, 

Filling  the  sky  and  the 
earth  below! 

Over-  the  housetops, 
over  the  street, 

Over  the  heads  of  the 
people  you  meet, 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming 
along. 

Beautiful  snow ! it  can  do 
nothing  wrong. 

Flying  to  kiss  a fair  lady’s 
cheek ; 

Clinging  to  lips  in  a frolicsome  freak ; 

Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 

Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love ! 

O the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 

How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go! 
Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 

It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 

Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 

It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye ; 

And  even  the  dogs,  with  a bark  and  a bound. 

Snap  at  the  crystals  that  hurry  around. 

The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 

Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song ! 

How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by, 

Bright  for  a moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye ! 

Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go, 

Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 

To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by ; 


To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of  feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  of  the  street. 

Once  I was  pure  as  the  snow,  but  I fell : 

Fell,  like  the  snowflakes,  from  heaven  to  hell ; 
Fell,  to  be  trampled  as  the  filth  of  the  street; 

Fell,  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on  and  beat. 

Pleading, 

Cursihg, 

, Dreading  to  die, 

Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy, 

Dealing  in  shame  for  a morsel  of  bread, 

Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 

Merciful  God ! have  I fallen  so  low  ? 

And  yet  I was  once  like  this  beautiful  snow ! 

Once  I was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 

With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace, 

Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 

God  and  myself,  I have  lost  by  my  fall. 

The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a wide  sweep  lest  I wander  too  nigh , 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I know 
There  is  nothing  that’s  pure  but  the  beautiful  snow 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 

How  strange  it  would  be  when  night  comes  again 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  desperate  brain! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone, 

Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 

Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow’s  coming  down ; 
To  lie  and  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 

With  a bed  and  a shroud  of  the  beautiful  snow  f 
James  W.  Watson 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  JESUS. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  JESUS. 


ROM  his  lips 

Truth,  limpid,  without  error,  flowed. 
Disease 

Fled  from  his  touch.  Pain  heard  him  and 
was  not. 

Despair  smiled  in  his  presence.  Devils  knew, 

And  trembled.  In  the  Omnipotence  of  faith, 
Unintermittent,  indefectible, 


Leaning  upon  his  Father’s  might,  he  bent 
All  nature  to  his  will.  The  tempest  sank, 

He  whispering,  into  waveless  calm.  The  bread 
Given  from  his  hands  fed  thousands,  and  to  spare, 
The  stormy  waters,  as  the  solid  rock 
Were  pavement  for  his  footstep.  Death  itself, 
With  vain  reluctancies  yielded  its  prey 
To  the  stern  mandate  of  the  Prince  of  Life. 

Edward  Bickersteth,  D.  D.,  LL.  D. 


“ The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and 
from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow 
through  all  the  gloomy  day.  ” 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 


79 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 


HE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest 
of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 
meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove  the  autumn  leaves 
lie  dead, 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust  and  to  the  rabbit’s 
tread ; 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 
the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the 
gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a beauteous  sister- 
hood ? 

Alas ! they  are  all  in  their  graves ; the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair  and  good 
of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie;  but  the  cold  No- 
vember rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 
ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  sum- 
mer glow ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn 
beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  up- 
land, glade  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still 
such  days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 
home; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 
the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill ; 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fra- 
grance late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 
. no  more. 

And  then  I think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty 
died, 

The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by 
my  side. 

In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forests 
cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a life  so 
brief ; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend 
of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 
flowers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  LAND  O’  THE  LEAL. 

’M  wearing  awa’,  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  it’s  thaw,  Jaan , 
I’m  wearing  awa’ 

To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 
There’s  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 

There’s  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 

The  day  is  aye  fair 
In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean; 

Your  task’s  ended  noo,  Jean, 

And  I’ll  welcome  you 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn’s  there,  Jean, 

She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  Jean  : 

Oh,  we  grudged  her  right  sair 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Then  dry  that  tearfu’  e’e,  Jean, 

My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 

And  angels  wait  on  me 
To  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 

This  warld’s  care  is  vain,  Jean; 

We’ll  meet  and  aye  be  fain 
In  the  land  o’  the  leal. 

Carolina,  Baroness  Nairne. 


THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN. 

|OW  seldom,  friend,  a good  great  man  in- 
herits 

Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and 
pains  ! 

It  seems  a story  from  the  world  of  spirits 
When  any  man  obtains  that  which  he  merits. 

Or  any  merits  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  my  friend ! renounce  this  idle  strain ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  a good  great  man  obtain  ? 
Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a golden  chain, 

Or  heap  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? 
Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 

The  good  great  man  ? Three  treasures — love,  and 
light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant’s  breath ; 

And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or  night — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


WOMAN’S  WILL. 

AN  EPIGRAM. 

EN,  dying,  make  their  wills,  but  wives 
Escape  a work  so  sad ; 

Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 
The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


So 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

PART  I. 

An  Ancient  Mariner  meeteth  three  gallants  bidden  to  a wed- 
ding-feast and  detaineth  one. 

\ 1 1 JaJ *s  an  Ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glitter- 
ing eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp’st  thou  me  ? 
The  Bridegroom’s  doors  are  opened 
wide, 

And  I am  next  of  kin  ; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set — 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din.” 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand: 

“ There  was  a ship,”  quoth  he. 

**  Hold  off!  unhand  me,  graybeard  loon!” 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

The  Wedding-Guest  is  spell-bound  by  the  eye  of  the  old  sett- 
flaring  man,  and  constrained  to  hear  his  tale. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 

The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still ; 

He  listens  like  a three-years’  child ; 

The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a stone, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner : 

“ The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared; 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  Mariner  tells  how  the  ship  sailed  southward,  with  a good 
•wind  and  fair  weather,  till  it  reached  the  line. 

“ The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 

And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea; 

“ Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — ” 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast. 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  Wedding-Guest  heareth  the  bridal  music,  but  the  Mariner 
continueth  his  tale. 

The  Bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall — 

Red  as  a rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wed  ding- Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright  eyed  Mariner: 

The  ship  drawn  by  a storm  toward  the  south  pole. 

And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 

He  struck  with  his  o’ertaking  wings, 

And  chased  us  south  along. 


“ With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow— 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

“And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold ; 

And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 

The  land  of  ice  and  of  fearful  sounds,  where  no  living  thing 
was  to  be  seen. 

“ And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  cliffs 
Did  send  a dismal  sheen  ; 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

“ The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled. 
Like  noises  in  a swound ! 

Till  a great  sea-bird,  called  the  Albatross,  came  through  the 
snow-fog,  and  was  received  with  great  joy  and  hospitality. 

“ At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross — 

Through  the  fog  it  came ; 

As  if  it  had  been  a Christian  soul, 

We  hailed  it  in  God’s  name. 

“ It  ate  the  food  it  ne’er  had  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

And  lo  ! the  Albatross  proveth  a bird  of  good  omen,  and  fol- 
loweth  the  ship  as  it  returned  northward  through  fog  and  floating 
ice. 

“ And  a good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow — 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners’  hollo  ! 

“ In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine.” 

The  Ancient  Mariner  inhospitably  killeth  the  pious  bird  ol 
good  omen. 

“ God  save  thee,  Ancient  Mariner, 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  ! 

Why  look’st  thou  so?  ” — “ With  my  cross-bow 
I shot  the  Albatross. 

PART  II. 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 

Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Come  to  the  mariners’  hollo ! 


82 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


His  shipmates  cry  out  against  the  Ancient  Mariner,  for  killing 
the  bird  of  good  luck. 

And  I had  done  an  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  ’em  woe  : 

For  all  averred,  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  ! said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

But  when  the  fog  cleared  off,  they  justify  the  same,  and  thus 
■take  themselves  accomplices  in  the  crime. 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God’s  own  head 
The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred,  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

’Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  continues  ; the  ship  enters  the  Pacific  Ocean, 
and  sails  northward,  even  till  it  reaches  the  line. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

The  ship  hath  been  suddenly  becalmed ; 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down — 
’Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

All  in  a hot  and  copper  sky 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 

Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 

We  stuck — nor  breath  nor  motion; 

As  idle  as  a painted  ship 
Upon  a painted  ocean. 

and  the  Albatross  begins  to  be  avenged. 

Water,  water  everywhere, 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 

Water,  water  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot : O Christ ! 

That  ever  this  should  be  ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea  ! 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a witch’s  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

A spirit  had  followed  them  ; one  of  the  invisible  inhabitants  of 
this  planet,  neither  departed  souls  nor  angels  ; concerning  whom 
the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic  Constantinopolitan, 
Michael  Psellus,  may  be  consulted.  They  are  very  numerous, 
and  there  is  no  climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 

Was  withered  at  the  root ; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

The  shipmates,  in  their  sore  distress,  would  fain  throw  the 
whole  guilt  on  the  Ancient  Mariner : in  sign  whereof  they  hang 
the  dead  sea-bird  round  his  neck. 

Ah  ! well- a- day  ! what  evil  looks 
Had  I from  old  and  young ! 

Instead  of  the  cross  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

part  in. 

There  passed  a weary  time.  Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye — 

A weary  time  ! a weary  time  ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye ! — 

When,  looking  westward,  I beheld 
A something  in  the  sky. 

The  Ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  a sign  in  the  element  afar  off. 

At  first  it  seemed  a little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a mist; 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A certain  shape,  I wist — 

A speck,  a mist,  a shape,  I wist ! 

And  still  it  neared  and  neared; 

As  if  it  dodged  a water-sprite, 

It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

At  its  nearer  approach  it  seemeth  him  to  be  a ship  ; and  at  a 
dear  ransom  he  freeth  his  speech  from  the  bonds  of  thirst. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 

I bit  my  arm,  I sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried,  ‘ A sail ! a sail ! * 

A flash  of  joy. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 

Gramercy  ! they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

% 

And  horror  follows.  For  can  it  be  a ship  that  comes  onward 
without  wind  or  tide? 

* See ! see  ! ’ I cried,  ‘ she  tacks  no  more  ! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal — 

Without  a breeze,  without  a tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! ’ 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame ; 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done ; 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun, 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

It  seemeth  him  but  the  skeleton  of  a ship. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven’s  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As  if  through  a dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


33 


Alas ! thought  I — and  my  heart  beat  loud — 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears! 

Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 

Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

And  its  ribs  are  seen  as  bars  on  the  face  of  the  setting  Sun. 
The  spectre-woman  and  her  death-mate,  and  no  other  on  board 
the  skeleton  ship. 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a grate? 

And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 

Is  that  a death  ? and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman’s  mate  ? 

Like  vessel,  like  crew  1 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free. 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold ; 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy : 

The  nightmare,  Life-in-Death,  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

Death  and  Life-in-Death  have  diced  for  the  ship’s  crew,  and 
•lie  (the  latter)  winneth  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice : 

'The  game  is  done.  I’ve  won!  I’ve  won!* 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

No  twilight  within  the  courts  of  the  Sun. 

The  Sun’s  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out; 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o’er  the  sea, 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

At  the  rising  of  the  Moon, 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman’s  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar, 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

one  after  another. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a ghastly  pang. 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

his  shipmates  drop  down  dead. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 

(And  I heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 

With  heavy  thump,  a lifeless  lump, 

They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

But  Life-in-Death  begins  her  work  on  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow ! ” 


PART  IV. 

The  Wedding-Guest  feareth  that  a spirit  is  talking  to  him; 

“ I fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner! 

I fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

but  the  Ancient  Mariner  assureth  him  of  his  bodily  life,  and  pm 
ceedeth  to  relate  his  horrible  penance. 

I fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.”— 

“ Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a wide,  wide  sea? 

And  never  a saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

He  despiseth  the  creatures  of  the  calm* 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie ; 

And  a thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on;  and  so  did  I. 

and  envieth  that  they  should  live,  and  so  many  J*«  4ced 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 

But,  or  ever  a prayer  had  gusht, 

A wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

Lay  like  a load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

But  the  curse  liveth  for  him  in  the  eye  of  the  dead  mao. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan’s  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh  ! more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a curse  in  a dead  man’s  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I could  not  die. 

In  his  loneliness#and  fixedness  he  yearneth  towards  the  jour» 
neying  Moon,  and  the  stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  on- 
ward; and  everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them,  and  19 
their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country,  and  their  ow» 
natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced,  as  lords  that  are 
certainly  expected,  and  yet  there  is  a silent  joy  at  their  arrival 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky. 

And  nowhere  did  abide ; 

Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a star  or  two  beside — 


84 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship’s  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway, 

A still  and  awful  red. 

By  the  light  of  the  Moon  he  beholdeth  God’s  creatures  of  the 
freat  calm. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  the  water-snakes ; 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white; 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  their  rich  attire — 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam ; and  every  track 
Was  a flash  of  golden  fire. 

Their  beauty  and  their  happiness. 

O happy  living  things ! no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare ; 

A spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

He  blesseth  them  in  his  heart. 

And  I blessed  them  unaware — 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me. 

And  I blessed  them  unaware. 

The  spell  begins  to  break. 

The  self-same  moment  I could  pray; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART  V. 

0 sleep ! it  is  a gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

By  grace  of  the  holy  Mother  the  Ancient  Mariner  is  refreshed 
with  rain. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck. 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

1 dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 

My  garments  all  were  dank ; 

Sure  I had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

I moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  ; 

I was  so  light — almost 
I thought  that  I had  died  in  sleep, 

And  was  a blessed  ghost. 

He  heareth  sounds  ana  seeth  strange  sights  and  commotions 
'*»  the  sky  and  the  element. 

And  soon  I heard  a roaring  wind— 

It  did  not  come  anear; 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


The  upper  air  burst  into  life; 

And  a hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud—. 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side; 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a jag — 

A river  steep  and  wide. 

The  bodies  of  the  ship’s  crew  are  inspired,  and  the  ship 
moves  on ; 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose— 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a dream, 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on; 

Yet  never  a breeze  up  blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  ’gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a ghastly  crew. 

The  Body  of  my  brother’s  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 

The  Body  and  I pulled  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  naught  to  me.” 

but  not  by  the  souls  of  the  men,  nor  by  daemons  of  earth  o» 
middle  air,  but  by  a blessed  troop  of  angelic  spirits,  sent  down 
by  the  invocation  of  the  guardian  saint. 

“ I fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner!  ” 

“ Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

’Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms. 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouth*. 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  Sun ; 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 

I heard  the  skylark  sing  afar; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


S5 


And  now  ’twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a lonely  flute ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel’s  song 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ; yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A noise  like  of  a hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 

Yet  never  a breeze  did  breathe  : 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

The  lonesome  spirit  from  the  south  pole  carries  on  the  ship  as 
far  as  the  line,  in  obedience  to  the  angelic  troop,  but  still  requir- 
eth  vengeance. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathoms  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  Spirit  slid : and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  : 

But  in  a minute  she  ’gan  stir, 

With  a short  uneasy  motion — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a pawing  horse  let  go, 

She  made  a sudden  bound  : 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head 
And  I fell  down  in  a swound. 

The  Polar  Spirit’s  fellow-dsemons,  the  invisible  inhabitants  of 
the  element,  take  part  in  his  wrong  : and  two  of  them  relate,  one 
to  the  other,  that  penance  long  and  heavy  for  the  Ancient  Mar- 
iner hath  been  accorded  to  the  Polar  Spirit,  who  returnetb 
southward. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I lay, 

I have  not  to  declare ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 

I heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

‘ Is  it  he  ? ’ quoth  one,  * Is  this  the  man  ? 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross! 

The  Spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.’ 

The  other  was  a softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  ‘ The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.’ 


PART  VI. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

* But  tell  me,  tell  me  ! speak  again, 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? ’ 

SECOND  VOICE. 

* Still  as  a slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 

For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.’ 

FIRST  VOICE. 

The  Mariner  hath  been  cast  into  a trance ; for  the  angelic 
power  causeth  the  vessel  to  drive  northward  faster  than  human 
life  could  endure. 

* But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 

Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ’ 

SECOND  VOICE. 

* The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  ! more  high,  more  high! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated  ; 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

When  the  Mariner’s  trance  is  abated.’ 

The  supernatural  motion  is  retarded ; the  Mariner  awakes, 
and  his  penance  begins  anew. 

I woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 
As  in  a gentle  weather  ; 

’Twas  night,  calm  night — the  moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For  a charnel-dungeon  fitter; 

All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died. 

Had  never  passed  away; 

I could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

The  curse  is  finally  expiated. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt;  once  more 
I viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And,  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 


86 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


But  soon  there  breathed  a wind  on  me. 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made ; 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek. 

Like  a meadow-gale  of  Spring — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears. 

Yet  it  felt  like  a welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  ; 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

And  the  Ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  his  native  country. 

O dream  of  joy  ! is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill  ? is  this  the  kirk  ? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o’er  the  harbor-bar, 

And  I with  sobs  did  pray — 

0 let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor  bay  was  clear  as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 
That  stands  above  the  rock ; 

The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

The  angelic  spirits  leave  the  dead  bodies. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colors  came. 

and  appear  in  their  own  forms  of  light. 

A little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

1 turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

O Christ ! what  saw  I there ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 

A man  all  light,  a seraph  man, 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 

It  was  a heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

Each  one  a lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice  ; but  oh  ! the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 


But  soon  I heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I heard  the  pilot’s  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I saw  a boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot’s  boy, 

I heard  them  coming  fast : 

Dear  Lord  in  heaven  ! it  was  a joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I saw  a third — I heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 
That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He’ll  shrieve  my  soul,  he’ll  wash  away 
The  Albatross’s  blood. 

PART  VII. 

The  hermit  of  the  wood 

This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 

He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 

That  come  from  a far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a cushion  plump : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared  : I heard  them  talk, 

‘ Why,  this  is  strange,  I trow  ! 

Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 

That  signal  made  but  now  ? ’ 

approacheth  the  ship  with  wonder. 

* Strange,  by  my  faith  ! ’ the  hermit  said — 

* And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  ! 

The  planks  looked  warped  ! and  see  those  sails 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 

I never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along ; 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below. 

That  eats  the  she- wolf ’s  young.’ 

‘ Dear  Lord  ! it  hath  a fiendish  look 
(The  pilot  made  reply) — 

I am  a-feared.’ — ‘ Push  on,  push  on ! J 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a sound  was  heard. 

The  ship  suddenly  sinketh. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 

Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay: 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


87 


The  Ancient  Mariner  is  saved  in  the  pilot's  boat. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I found 
Within  the  pilot’s  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl  where  sank  the  ship 
The  boat  span  round  and  round ; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a fit ; 

The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I took  the  oars ; the  pilot’s  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long ; and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro  : 

* Ha  l ha  ! ’ quoth  he,  ‘ full  plain  I see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.’ 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

The  Ancient  Mariner  earnestly  entreateth  the  hermit  to 
*hrieve  him  : and  the  penance  of  life  falls  on  him. 

‘ O shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  ! ’ — 

The  hermit  crossed  his  brow  : 

* Say  quick,’  quoth  he,  ‘ I bid  thee  say — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ’ 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a woeful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale — 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

And  ever  and  anon  throughout  his  future  life  an  agony  c*n- 
straineth  him  to  travel  from  land  to  land  : 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns ; 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 


That  moment  that  his  face  I see 
I know  the  man  that  must  hear  me — 

To  him  my  tale  I teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there ; 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  Bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  ; 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell. 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

O Wedding-Guest ! this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a wide,  wide  sea — 

So  lonely  ’twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

Oh,  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

’Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a goodly  company ! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends — 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

and  to  teach  by  his  own  example,  love  and  revere$fce  to  af 
things,  that  God  made  and  loveth. 

Farewell ! farewell ! but  this  I tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

* 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all.” 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone.  And  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  Bridegroom’s  door. 


He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn ; 

A sadder  and  a wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


I pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land, 
I have  strange  power  of  speech ; 


88 


MAUD  MULLER. 


AUD 
on 
day, 

Raked  the  mea- 
dow sweet  with 
hay. 

Beneath  her  torn 
hat  glowed  the 
wealth  , 

Of  simple  beauty 
and  rustic 
health. 

Singing,  she 
wrought,  and 
her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird 
echoed  from 
his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 

White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a vague  unrest 
And  a nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 

A wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 

For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 


At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  : “Ah  me  ! 
That  I the  Judge’s  bride  might  be ! 

“ He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 

And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

“ My  father  should  wear  a broadcloth  coat, 

My  brother  should  sail  a painted  boat. 

“ I’d  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a new  toy  each  day. 

“And  I’d  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door.” 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still : 

“A  form  more  fair,  a face  more  sweet, 

Ne’er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

“And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air — 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

“ Would  she  were  mine,  and  I to-day, 

Like  her,  a harvester  of  hay. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

MULLER, 
a summer’s 


The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse’s  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin-cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  he-r  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

“ Thanks  ! ” said  the  Judge,  “ a sweeter  draught 
From  a fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed.” 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 


“ No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

“ But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 

And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words.” 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 

And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune  • 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well. 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a wife  of  richest  dower, 

Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth’s  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a picture  come  and  go ; 


Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 


And  sweet  Maud  Muller’s  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 


And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 


Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead, 


And  listened,  while  a pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 


And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms. 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms; 


“And  oft  when  the  Summer  Sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot.” 


(«9)  ' 


9o 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 


And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a secret  pain, 
“Ah,  that  I were  free  again  ! 

“ Free  as  when  I rode  that  day 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay.” 

She  wedded  a man  unlearned  and  poor, 

And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

Blit  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain. 

Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  a timiu  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a spinnet  turned, 

The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o’er  pipe  and  mug, 

A manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 

And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  “ It  might  have  been.” 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both ! and  pity  us  all, 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall ; 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  : “ It  might  have  been  ! ” 

Ah,  well  ! for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  EAGLE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

E clasps  the  crag  with  hookdd  hands ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 

Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 


The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 

He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 

And  like  a thunderbolt  he  falls. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

Gilbert  Burns,  the  brother  of  the  poet,  says : “ He  (Burnsj 
used  to  remark  to  me  that  he  could  not  well  conceive  a more 
mortifying  picture  of  human  life  than  a man  seeking  work.  In 
casting  about  in  his  mind  how  this  sentiment  might  be  brought 
forward,  the  elegy,  Man  was  made  to  mourn,  was  composed. - 

1 HEN  chill  November’s  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 

One  evening,  as  I wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I spied  a man  whose  aged  step 
Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care; 

His  face  was  furrowed  o’er  with  years. 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

41  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou?** 
Began  the  reverend  sage ; 

“ Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ? 

Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man  ! 

“ The  sun  that  o’erhangs  yon  moors. 
Outspreading  far  and  wide, 

Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 
A haughty  lordling’s  pride— 

I’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 
Twice  forty  times  return  ; 

And  every  time  has  added  proofs 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“ O man,  while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 

Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours. 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  : 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 

Which  ten-fold  force  give’s  Nature’s  law. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“ Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood’s  active  might ; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind 
Supported  in  his  right ; 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 

Then  age  and  want,  O ill-matched  pair! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

“A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure’s  lap  carest ; 

Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  oh,  what  crowds  in  every  land 
Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 

Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn— 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

**  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  310  URN. 


9 


And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

4 

“ See  yonder  poor,  o’erlabored  wight, 
So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

Who  begs  a brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 


And  see  his  lordly  fellow- worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  ’though  a weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

“ If  I’m  designed  yon  lordling’s  slav«— 
By  Nature’s  law  designed — 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 


If  not,  why  am  I subject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

“ Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 

This  partial  view  of  humankind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 
Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 


Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

“ O Death  ! the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend. 
The  kindest  and  the  best ! 

Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 
From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn ; 

But,  oh,  a blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn  1 ” 


Robert  Burns. 


92 


THE  CANDID  MAN. 


THE  CANDID  MAN. 

Amongst  the  very  popular  novelists  of  our  times  must  be  reckoned  Lord  Lytton — born  1805,  died  1873.  He  was  raised  to  the 
peerage  in  1866.  His  first  novel  was  “ Falkland,”  published  when  he  was  very  young.  Its  reception  was  not  eminently  favorable  ; 
but  “ Pelham,  from  which  the  following  is  extracted,  at  once  established  a reputation  for  the  young  man  of  fashion,  who  brought 
from  Cambridge  a character  of  high  promise.  In  various  realms  of  fiction  Lord  Lytton  has  since  travelled.  As  a dramatist  and  a 
novelist  his  success  has  been  large  and  enduring.  His  early  reputation  as  a brilliant  writer  of  fiction  was  largely  exceeded  by  the 
greater  depth  and  power  of  his  later  productions.  “ The  Caxtons  ” was  originally  published  in  Blackwood' s Magazine , as  were 
“ My  Novel  ” and  “ What  will  he  do  with  it  ? " 


NE  bright,  laughing  day  I threw  down  my  book  an  hour 
sooner  than  usual,  and  sallied  out  with  lightness  of  foot  and 
exhilaration  of  spirit,  to  which  I had  long  been  a stranger. 
I had  just  sprung  over  a stile  that  led  into  one  of  those 
green  shady  lanes  which  make  us  feel  that  the  old  poets 
who  loved  and  lived  for  nature  were  right  in  calling  our 
island  “ the  merry  England,”  when  I was  startled  by  a 
short,  quick  bark  on  one  side  of  the  hedge.  I turned 
sharply  round,  and  seated  upon  the  sward  was  a man  ap- 
parently of  the  pedler  profession.  A great  deal  box  was 
lying  open  before  him,  a few  articles  of  linen  and  female 
dresses  were  scattered  round,  and  the  man  himself  appeared 
earnestly  occupied  in  examining  the  deeper  recesses  of  his 
itinerant  warehouse.  A small  black  terrier  flew  towards 
with  no  friendly  growl.  “Down!”  said  I;  “all 


me 


though 


the 


English  generally 


strangers  are  not  foes, 
think  so.” 

The  man  hastily  looked  up.  Perhaps  he  was  struck 
with  the  quaintness  of  my  remonstrance  to  his  canine 
companion,  for,  touching  his  hat  civilly,  he  said,  “ The 
dog,  sir,  is  very  quiet;  he  only  means  to  give  me  the  alarm 
by  giving  it  to  you — for  dogs  seem  to  have  no  despicable 
insight  into  human  nature,  and  know  well  that  the  best 
of  us  may  be  taken  by  surprise.” 

“ You  are  a moralist,”  said  I,  not  a little  astonished  in 
my  turn  by  such  an  address  from  such  a person.  “ I could 
not  have  expected  to  stumble  upon  a philosopher  so  easily. 
Have  you  any  wares  in  your  box  likely  to  suit  me?  If 
so,  I should  like  to  purchase  of  so  moralizing  a vendor.” 

“ No,  sir,”  said  the  seeming  pedler,  smiling,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  hurrying  his  goods  into  his  box  and 
carefully  turnihg  the  key ; “ no,  sir,  I am  only  a bearer  of 
other  men’s  goods.  My  morals  are  all  that  I can  call  my 
own,  and  those  I will  sell  you  at  your  own  price.” 

“ You  are  candid,  my  friend,”  said  I,  “and  your  frankness  alone  would  be  inesti- 
mable in  this  age  of  deceit  and  country  of  hypocrisy.” 


THE  CANDID  31 AN. 


93 


“Ah,  sir,”  said  my  new  acquaintance,  “ I see  already  that  you  are  one  of  those 
persons  who  look  to  the  dark  side  of  things ; for  my  part,  I think  the  present  age  the 
best  that  ever  existed  and  our  country  the  most  virtuous  in  Europe.” 

“ I congratulate  you,  Mr.  Optimist,  on  your  opinions,”  quoth  I ; “ but  your  obser- 
vation leads  me  to  suppose  that  you  are  both  an  historian  and  a traveller.  Am  I 
right  ?” 

“ Why,”  answered  the  box-bearer,  “ I have  dabbled  a little  in  books  and  wandered 
not  a little  among  men.  I am  just  returned  from  Germany,  and  am  now  going  to 
my  friends  in  London.  I am  charged  with  this  box  of  goods;  God  send  me  the 
luck  to  deliver  it  safe  ! ” 

“Amen,”  said  I ; “ and  with  that  prayer  and  this  trifle  I wish  you  good-morning.” 
“ Thank  you  a thousand  times,  sir,  for  both,”  replied  the  man,  “ but  do  add  to  your 

favors  by  informing  me  of  the  right  road  to  the  town  of .” 

“ I am  going  in  that  direction  myself.  If  you  choose  to  accompany  me  part  of 
the  way,  I can  insure  your  not  missing  the  rest.” 

“ Your  honor  is  too  good,”  returned  he  of  the  box,  rising  and  slinging  his  fardel 
across  him;  “it  is  but  seldom  that  a gentleman  of  your  rank  will  condescend  to  walk 
three  paces  with  one  of  mine.  You  smile,  sir.  Perhaps  you  think  I should  not  class 
myself  among  gentlemen,  and  yet  I have  as  good  a right  to  the  name  as  most  of  the 
set.  I belong  to  no  trade,  I follow  no  calling ; I rove  where  I list  and  rest  where  I 
please ; in  short,  I know  no  occupation  but  my  indolence  and  no  law  but  my  will. 
Now,  sir,  may  I not  call  myself  a gentleman  ? ” 

“ Of  a surety,”  quoth  I.  “ You  seem  to  me  to  hold  a middle  rank  between  a half- 
pay captain  and  the  king  of  the  gypsies.” 

“ You  have  it,  sir,”  rejoined  my  companion  with  a slight  laugh.  He  was  now  by 
my  side,  and  as  we  walked  on  I had  leisure  more  minutely  to  examine  him.  He 
was  a middle-sized  and  rather  athletic  man,  apparently  about  the  age  of  thirty-eight. 
He  was  attired  in  a dark  blue  frock  coat,  which  was  neither  shabby  nor  new,  but  ill- 
made,  and  much  too  large  and  long  for  its  present  possessor;  beneath  this  was  a faded 
velvet  waistcoat  that  had  formerly,  like  the  Persian  ambassador’s  tunic,  “ blushed 
with  crimson  and  blazed  with  gold,”  but  which  might  now  have  been  advantageously 
exchanged  in  Monmouth  street  for  the  lawful  sum  of  two  shillings  and  ninepence ; 
under  this  was  an  inner  vest  of  the  Cashmere  shawl  pattern,  which  seemed  much  too 
new  for  the  rest  of  the  dress.  Though  his  shirt  was  of  a very  unwashed  hue,  I re- 
marked with  some  suspicion  that  it  was  of  a very  respectable  fineness ; and  a pin, 
which  might  be  paste  or  could  be  diamond,  peeped  below  a tattered  and  dingy  black 
kid  stock  like  a gypsy’s  eye  beneath  her  hair. 

His  trowsers  were  of  a light  gray,  and  the  justice  of  Providence  or  of  the  tailor 
avenged  itself  upon  them  for  the  prodigal  length  bestowed  upon  their  ill-assorted 
companion,  the  coat,  for  they  were  much  too  tight  for  the  muscular  limbs  they  con- 
cealed, and,  rising  far  above  the  ankle,  exhibited  the  whole  of  a thick  Wellington 
boot,  which  was  the  very  picture  of  Italy  upon  the  map. 


94 


THE  CANDID  MAN. 


The  face  of  the  man  was  commonplace  and  ordinary.  One  sees  a hundred  such 
every  day  in  Fleet  street  or  on  the  ’Change.  The  features  were  small,  irregular, 
and  somewhat  flat,  yet  when  you  looked  twice  upon  the  countenance  there  was 
something  marked  and  singular  in  the  expression  which  fully  atoned  for  the  com- 
monness of  the  features.  The  right  eye  turned  away  from  the  left  in  that  watchful 
squint  which  seems  constructed  on  the  same  considerate  plans  as  those  Irish  guns 
made  for  shooting  round  a corner;  his  eyebrows  were  large  and  shaggy,  and  greatly 
resembled  bramble  bushes,  in  which  his  fox-like  eyes  had  taken  refuge.  Round 
these  vulpine  retreats  was  a labyrinthian  maze  of  those  wrinkles  vulgarly  called 
crow’s  feet,  deep,  intricate  and  intersected ; they  seemed  for  all  the  world  like  the 
web  of  a Chancery  suit.  Singular  enough,  the  rest  of  the  countenance  was  perfectly 
smooth  and  unindented  ; even  the  lines  from  the  nostril  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
usually  so  deeply  traced  in  men  of  his  age,  were  scarcely  more  apparent  than  in  a 
boy  of  eighteen. 

His  smile  was  frank — his  voice  clear  and  hearty — his  address  open,  and  much 
superior  to  his  apparent  rank  of  life,  claiming  somewhat  of  equality,  yet  conceding  a 
great  deal  of  respect ; but,  notwithstanding  all  these  certainly  favorable  points,  there 
was  a sly  and  cunning  expression  in  his  perverse  and  vigilant  eye  and  all  the 
wrinkled  demesnes  in  its  vicinity,  that  made  me  mistrust  even  while  I liked  my  com- 
panion : perhaps,  indeed,  he  was  too  frank,  too  familiar,  too  degage , to  be  quite  natu- 
ral. Your  honest  men  soon  buy  reserve  by  experience.  Rogues  are  communica- 
tive and  open,  because  confidence  and  openness  cost  them  nothing.  To  finish  the 
description  of  my  new  acquaintance,  I should  observe  that  there  was  something  in 
his  countenance  which  struck  me  as  not  wholly  unfamiliar ; it  was  one  of  those 
which  we  have  not,  in  all  human  probability,  seen  before,  and  yet  which  (perhaps 
from  their  very  commonness)  we  imagine  we  have  encountered  a hundred  times. 

We  walked  on  briskly,  notwithstanding  the  warmth  of  the  day ; in  fact,  the  air 
was  so  pure,  the’ grass  so  green,  the  laughing  noonday  so  full  of  the  hum,  the  mo- 
tion, and  the  life  of  creation,  that  the  feeling  produced  was  rather  that  of  freshness 
and  invigoration  than  of  languor  and  heat. 

“ We  have  a beautiful  country,  sir,”  said  my  hero  of  the  box.  “ It  is  like  walking 
through  a garden,  after  the  more  sterile  and  sullen  features  of  the  continent.  A pure 
mind,  sir,  loves  the  country ; for  my  part,  I am  always  disposed  to  burst  out  in 
thanksgiving  to  Providence  when  I behold  its  works,  and,  like  the  valleys  in  the 
psalm,  I am  ready  to  laugh  and  sing.” 

“An  enthusiast,”  said  I,  “ as  well  as  a philosopher ! perhaps  (and  I believed  it 
likely)  I have  the  honor  of  addressing  a poet  also.” 

“Why,  sir,”  replied  the  man,  “ I have  made  verses  in  my  life;  in  short,  there  is 
little  I have  not  done,  for  I was  always  a lover  of  variety ; but,  perhaps,  your  honor 
will  let  me  return  the  suspicion.  Ar  q you  not  a favorite  of  the  muse?” 

“ I cannot  say  that  I am,”  said  I.  “ I value  myself  only  on  my  common  sense — 
the  very  antipode  to  genius,  you  know,  according  to  the  orthodox  belief.” 


THE  CANDID  31  AN. 


95 


“ Common  sense  ! ” repeated  my  companion,  with  a singular  and  meaning  smile, 
and  a twinkle  with  his  left  eye.  “ Common  sense  ! Ah,  that  is  not  my  forte , sir. 
You,  I dare  say,  are  one  of  those  gentlemen  whom  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  in, 
either  passively  or  actively,  by  appearance,  or  in  act  ? For  my  part,  I have  been  a 
dupe  all  my  life — a child  might  cheat  me!  I am  the  most  unsuspicious  person  in 
the  world.” 

“Too  candid  by  half,”  thought  I.  “This  man  is  certainly  a rascal;  but  what  is 
that  to  me  ? I shall  never  see  him  again  ; ” and  true  to  my  love  of  never  losing  an 
opportunity  of  ascertaining  individual  character,  I observed  that  I thought  such  an 
acquaintance  very  valuable,  especially  if  he  were  in  trade  ; it  was  a pity,  therefore, 
for  my  sake,  that  my  companion  had  informed  me  that  he  followed  no  calling. 

“ Why,  sir,”  said  he,  “ I am  occasionally  in  employment ; my  nominal  profession 
is  that  of  a broker.  I buy  shawls  and  handkerchiefs  of  poor  countesses,  and  retail 
them  to  rich  plebeians.  I fit  up  new-married  couples  with  linen  at  a more  moderate 
rate  than  the  shops,  and  procure  the  bridegroom  his  present  of  jewels  at  forty  per 
cent,  less  than  the  jewellers  ; nay,  I am  as  friendly  to  an  intrigue  as  a marriage  ; and, 
when  I cannot  sell  my  jewels,  I will  my  good  offices.  A gentleman  so  handsome  as 
your  honor  may  have  an  affair  upon  your  hands ; if  so,  you  may  rely  upon  my  se- 
crecy and  zeal.  In  short,  I am  an  innocent,  good-natured  fellow,  who  does  harm  to 
no  one  or  nothing,  and  good  to  every  one  for  something.” 

“ I admire  your  code,”  quoth  I,  “ and,  whenever  I want  a mediator  between  Venus 
and  myself,  will  employ  you.  Have  you  always  followed  your  present  idle  profes- 
sion, or  were  you  brought  up  to  any  other  ? ” 

“ I was  intended  for  a silversmith,”  answered  my  friend ; “ but  Providence  willed 
it  otherwise  : they  taught  me  from  childhood  to  repeat  the  Lord’s  prayer  : Heaven 
heard  me,  and  delivered  me  from  temptation — there  is,  indeed,  something  terribly 
seducing  in  the  face  of  a silver  spoon.” 

“ Well,”  said  I,  “ you  are  the  honestest  knave  that  ever  I met,  and  one  would  trust 
you  with  one’s  purse,  for  the  ingenuousness  with  which  you  own  you  would  steal  it. 
Pray,  think  you,  is  it  probable  that  I have  ever  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you 
before  ? I cannot  help  fancying  so — as  yet  I have  never  been  in  the  watch-house  or 
the  Old  Bailey ; my  reason  tells  me  that  I must  be  mistaken.” 

“ Not  at  all,  sir,”  returned  my  worthy ; “ I remember  you  well,  for  I never  saw  a 
face  like  yours  that  I did  not  remember.  I had  the  honor  of  sipping  some  British 
liquors  in  the  same  room  with  yourself  one  evening ; you  were  then  in  company 
with  my  friend  Mr.  Gordon.” 

“ Ha ! ” said  I,  “ I thank  you  for  the  hint.  I now  remember  well,  by  the  same 
token,  that  he  told  me  you  were  the  most  ingenious  gentleman  in  England,  and  that 
you  had  a happy  propensity  of  mistaking  other  people’s  possessions  for  your  own  ; I 
congratulate  myself  upon  so  desirable  an  acquaintance.” 

My  friend  smiled  with  his  usual  blandness,  and  made  me  a low  bow  of  acknowl- 
edgment before  he  resumed. 


96 


THE  CANDID  MAN. 


lt  No  doubt,  sir,  Mr.  Gordon  informed  you  right.  I flatter  myself  few  gentlemen 
understand  better  than  myself  the  art  of  appropriation , though  I say  it  who  should 
not  say  it.  I deserve  the  reputation  I have  acquired,  sir ; I have  always  had  ill-for- 
tune to  struggle  against,  and  always  have  remedied  it  by  two  virtues — perseverance 
and  ingenuity.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  my  ill-fortune,  know  that  I have  been  taken 
up  twenty-three  times  on  suspicion  ; of  my  perseverance,  know  that  twenty-three 
times  I have  been  taken  up  justly ; and,  of  my  ingenuity,  know  that  I have  been 
twenty-three  times  let  off,  because  there  was  not  a tittle  of  legal  evidence  against 
me ! ” 

“ I venerate  your  talents,  Mr.  Jonson,”  replied  I,  “ if  by  the  name  of  Jonson  it 
pleaseth  you  to  be  called,  although,  like  the  heathen  deities,  I presume  that  you  have 
many  titles,  whereof  some  are  more  grateful  to  your  ears  than  others.” 

“ Nay,”  answered  the  man  of  two  virtues,  “ I am  never  ashamed  of  my  name  ; in- 
deed, I have  never  done  anything  to  disgrace  me.  I have  never  indulged  in  low 
company,  nor  profligate  debauchery ; whatever  I have  executed  by  way  of  profes- 
sion has  been  done  in  a superior  and  artist-like  manner ; not  in  the  rude,  bungling 
fashion  of  other  adventurers.  Moreover,  I have  always  had  a taste  for  polite  litera- 
ture, and  went  once  as  an  apprentice  to  a publishing  bookseller,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  reading  the  new  works  before  they  came  out.  In  fine,  I have  never  neglected  any 
opportunity  of  improving  my  mind ; and  the  worst  that  can  be  said  against  me  is, 
that  I have  remembered  my  catechism,  and  taken  all  possible  pains  ‘ to  learn  and 
labor  truly  to  get  my  living,  and  to  do  my  duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  call  me.’  ” 

“ I have  often  heard,”  answered  I,  “ that  there  is  honor  among  thieves ; I am  happy 
to  learn  from  you  that  there  is  also  religion  ; your  baptismal  sponsors  must  be  proud 
of  so  diligent  a godson.” 

“They  ought  to  be,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Jonson,  “ for  I gave  them  the  first  specimens 
of  my  address : the  story  is  long,  but,  if  you  ever  give  me  an  opportunity,  I will 
relate  it.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  I ; “ meanwhile  I must  wish  you  good  morning:  your  way  now 
lies  to  the  right.  I return  you  my  best  thanks  for  your  condescension,  in  accompa- 
nying so  undistinguished  an  individual  as  myself.” 

“ Oh,  never  mention  it,  your  honor,”  rejoined  Mr.  Jonson.  “ I am  always  too 
happy  to  walk  with  a gentleman  of  your  4 common  sense.’  Farewell,  sir;  may  we 
meet  again ! ” 

So  saying,  Mr.  Jonson  struck  into  his  new  road,  and  we  parted. 

I went  home,  musing  on  my  adventure,  and  delighted  with  my  adventurer.  When 
I was  about  three  paces  from  the  door  of  my  home,  I was  accosted  in  a most  pitiful 
tone,  by  a poor  old  beggar,  apparently  in  the  last  extreme  of  misery  and  disease. 
Notwithstanding  my  political  economy,  I was  moved  into  alms-giving  by  a spectacle 
so  wretched.  I put  my  hand  into  my  pocket — my  purse  was  gone;  and,  on  search- 


THY  WILL  BE  BONE. 


97 


ing  the  other,  lo — my  handkerchief,  my  pocket-book,  and  a gold  locket,  which  had 
belonged  to  Madame  D’Anville,  had  vanished  too. 

One  does  not  keep  company  with  men  of  two  virtues,  and  receive  compliments 
upon  one’s  common  sense,  for  nothing! 

The  beggar  still  continued  to  importune  me. 

“ Give  him  some  food  and  half-a-crown,”  said  I to  my  landlady.  Two  hours  after- 
wards she  came  up  to  me — “ Oh,  sir ! my  silver  teapot — that  villain  the  beggar!  ” 

A light  flashed  upon  me — “Ah,  Mr.  Job  Jonson  ! Mr.  Job  Jonson  ! ” cried  I,  in  an 
indescribable  rage  ; “ out  of  my  sight,  woman  ! out  of  my  sight ! ” I stopped  short ; 
my  speech  failed  me.  Never  tell  me  that  shame  is  the  companion  of  guilt — the  sin- 
ful knave  is  never  so  ashamed  of  himself  as  is  the  innocent  fool  who  suffers  by  him. 

Lord  Lytton. 


LONDON  CHURCHES. 

STOOD,  one  Sunday 
morning, 

Before  a large  church 
door, 

The  congregation  gath- 
ered, 

And  carriages  a 
score ; 

From  one  outstepped  a 
lady 

I oft  had  seen  before. 

Her  hand  was  on  a 
prayer-book, 

And  held  a vinai- 
grette ; 

The  sign  of  man’s  re- 
demption 

Clear  on  the  book 
was  set ; 

But  above  the  cross  there  glistened 
A golden  coronet. 

For  her  the  obsequious  beadle 
The  inner  door  flung  wide; 

Lightly,  as  up  a ball-room, 

Her  footsteps  seemed  to  glide. 

There  might  be  good  thoughts  in  her, 

For  all  her  evil  pride. 

But  after  her  a woman 
Peeped  wistfully  within, 

On  whose  wan  face  was  graven 
Life’s  hardest  discipline — 

The  trace  of  the  sad  trinity 
Of  weakness,  pain  and  sin. 

The  few  free  seats  were  crowded 
Where  she  could  rest  and  pray; 

With  her  worn  garb  contrasted 
Each  side  in  fair  array — 

“ God’s  house  holds  no  poor  sinners,” 

She  sighed,  and  crept  away. 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes  (Lord Houghton). 

7 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 


E see  not,  know  not ; all  our  way 
Is  night — with  thee  alone  is  day ; 
From  out  the  torrent’s  troubled  drift. 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint. 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 

Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 

And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 


Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 

We  trace  thy  picture’s  wise  design, 

And  thank  thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 

Thy  will  .be  done  ! 

And  if  in  our  unworthiness 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  — 

If  from  thy  ordeal’s  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars. 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

If  for  the  age  to  come  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power — 

And,  blest  by  thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  liberty’s  eternal  gain, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike  thou,  the  Master,  we  thy  keys, 

The  anthem  of  the  destinies ! 

The  minor  of  thy  loftier  strain, 

Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THAN  A TOPSIS. 


98 


DAY  IS  DYING. 

FROM  “THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.” 

AY  is  dying  ! Float  0 song, 
Down  the  westward  river, 
Requiem  chanting  to  the 
Day — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he 
bleeds, 

Melte'd  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the 
sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blend- 
ing; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 
Up  to  cloud-land  lilting : 

Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

’Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a flower 
Inly  deeper  flushing, 

Neck  and  breast  as  virgin’s  pure — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying ! Float,  O swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river ; 

Follow,  song,  in  requiem 
To  the  mighty  Giver. 

Marian  Evans  Lewes  Cross  ( George  Eliot). 


THANATOPSIS. 

him  who,  in  the  love  of  Na- 
ture, h,olds 

Communion  with  her  visible 
forms,  she  speaks 
A various  language : for  his 
gayer  hours 

She  has  a voice  of  gladness, 
and  a smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty ; 
and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with 
a mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that 
steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is 
aware.  When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  &nd  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature’s  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 

Comes  a still  voice : — Yet  a few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ; nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 


Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 

To  be  a brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.  The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould, 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ; the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods ; rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 

That  make  the  meadows  green ; and,  poured  round 
all, 

Old  ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste— 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man  ! The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.  All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there! 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone ! 

So  shalt  thou  rest ; and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friends 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ? All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
1 Tod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ; yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men — 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  Cui.lrn  Bryant. 


LIST  TO  NATURE'S  TEACHINGS.” 


(99' 


IOO 


NINE  GRAVES  IN  EDINBORO' . 


NINE  GRAVES  IN  EDINBORO’. 


Robert  Arnim,  in  his  “ The  Nest  of  the  Nin- 
nies" (a.  d.  ifo8),  says  concerning  the  death  of 
Jemmy  Camber,  one  of  the  jesters  of  King 
James  I.  during  his  reign  in  Scotland:  "Jemmy 
rose,  made  him  ready,  takes  his  horse,  and  ride& 
to  the  churchyard  in  the  high  towne,  where  he 
found  the  sexton  (as  the  custom  is  there)  making 
nine  graves— three  for  men,  three  for  women,  and 
three  for  children  ; and  whoso  dyes  next,  first 
come,  first  served.  ‘ Lend  me  thy  spade,’  says 
Jemmy,  and  with  that  digs  a hole,  which  hole  hee 
bids  him  make  for  his  grave  ; and  doth  give  him  a 
French  crowne.  The  man,  willing  to  please  him 
(more  for  his  gold  than  his  pleasure),  did  so  ; and 
the  foole  gets  upon  his  horse,  rides  to  a gentleman 
of  the  towne,  and  on  the  sodaine  within  two 
houres  after  dyed  ; of  whom  the  sexton  telling,  he 
was  buried  there  indeed." 


N the  church-yard,  up  in 
f the  old  high  town, 
The  sexton  stood  at  his 
daily  toil, 

And  he  lifted  his  mattock 
and  drove  it  down, 
And  sunk  it  deep  in  the 
sacred  soil. 


And  then  as  he  delved  he 
sang  right  lustily, 

Aye  as  he  deepened  and  shaped  the 
graves 

n the  black  old  mold  that  smelled  so 
mustily, 

And  thus  was  the  way  of  the  sexton’s- 
staves : 


“ It’s  nine  o’  the  clock,  and  I have  begun 
The  settled  task  that  is  daily  mine ; 

By  ten  o’  the  clock  I will  finish  one — 

By  six  o’  the  clock  there  must  be  nine : 

* Just  three  for  women,  and  three  for  men; 

And,  to  fill  the  number,  another  three 
For  daughters  of  women  and  sons  of  men. 
Who  men  or  women  shall  never  be. 


‘And  the  first  of  the  graves  in  a row  of 
three 

Is  his  or  hers  who  shall  first  appear; 

All  lie  in  the  order  they  come  to  me, 

And  such  has  been  ever  the  custom 
here.” 

The  first  they  brought  was  a fair  young 
child, 

And  they  saw  him  buried  and  went 
their  way; 

And  the  sexton  leaned  on  his  spade  and 
smiled, 

And  wondered,  “ How  many  more  to 
day  ? ” 

The  next  was  a man ; then  a woman  came ; 

The  sexton  had  loved  her  in  years- 
gone  by ; 

But  the  years  had  gone,  and  the  dead  old 
dame 

He  buried  as  deep  as  his  memory. 


ABIDE  WITH  ME. 


IOI 


at  six  o’  the  clock  his  task  was  done ; 

Eight  graves  were  closed,  and  the  ninth  prepared — 
Made  ready  to  welcome  a man — what  one 
’Twas  little  the  grim  old  sexton  cared. 

He  sat  him  down  on  its  brink  to  rest, 

When  the  clouds  were  red  and  the  sky  was  gray, 
And  said  to  himself : “ This  last  is  the  best 
And  deepest  of  all  I have  digged  to-day. 

“ Who  will  fill  it,  I wonder,  and  when  ? 

It  does  not  matter : whoe’er  they  be, 

The  best  and  the  worst  of  the  race  of  men 
Are  all  alike  when  they  come  to  me.” 

They  went  to  him  with  a man,  next  day, 

When  the  sky  was  gray  and  the  clouds  were  red, 


As  the  sun  set  forth  on  his  upward  way ; 

They  went — and  they  found  the  sexton  dead. 

Dead,  by  the  open  grave,  was  he ; 

And  they  buried  him  in  it  that  self-same  day, 
And  marvelled  much  such  a thing  should  be; 

And  since,  the  people  will  often  say  : 

If  ye  dig,  no  matter  when. 

Graves  to  bury  other  men, 

Think — it  never  can  be  known 
When  yell  chance  to  dig  your  own. 

Mind  ye  of  the  tale  ye  know — 

Nine  graves  in  Edinbro. 

Irwin  Russell. 


ABIDE  WITH  ME. 


BIDE  with  me ! Fast  falls  the 
eventide, 

The  darkness  deepens — Lord, 
with  me  abide ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and 
comforts  flee, 

Help  of  the  helpless,  O abide 
with  me ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life’s 
little  day; 

Earth’s  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories 
pass  away ; 

Change  and  decay  in  all  around 
I see ; 

O thou,  who  changest  not,  abide 
with  me ! 


I need  thy  presence  every  passing  hour; 

What  but  thy  grace  can  foil  the  tempter’s  power ! 
Who,  like  thyself,  my  guide  and  stay  can  be  ? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  Lord,  abide  with  me  I 


I fear  no  foe,  with  thee  at  hand  to  bless; 

Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness; 

Where  is  death’s  sting?  where,  grave,  thy  victory? 
I triumph  still,  if  thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  thou  thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes ; 

Shine  through  the  gloom  and  point  me  to  the  skies  ; 
Heaven’s  morning  breaks,  and  earth’s  vain  shadows 
flee ; 

In  life,  in  death,  O Lord,  abide  with  me ! 

Henry  F.  Lyte. 


102 


COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD. 


COME  INTO  THE 

OME  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown ! 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves, 

On  a bed  of  daffodil  sky, — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves, 

To  faint  in  its  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune, — 

Till  a silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I said  to  the  lily,  “There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I said  to  the  rose,  “The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 

But  mine,  but  mine,”  so  I sware  to  the  rose, 

“ For  ever  and  ever  mine ! ” 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I stood, 

For  I heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


GARDEN,  MAUD. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a March-wind  sighs, 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet. 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake*  ' 
Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 

Come  hither ! the  dances  are  done ; 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls. 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ! 

The  red  rose  cries,  “She  is  near,  she  is  near;”’ 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “She  is  late;” 

The  larkspur  listens,  “I  hear,  I hear;” 

And  the  lily  whispers,  “I  wait.” 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthly  bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I lain  for  a century  dead  ; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  VAGABONDS. 


are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger’s  my  dog : — come  here,  you 
scamp ! 

Jump  for  the  gentlemen — mind  your  eye  ! 
Over  the  table — look  out  for  the  lamp  ! — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a little  old; 

Five  years  we’ve  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank — and  starved  together. 

We’ve  learned  what  comfort  is,  I tell  you ! 

A bed  on  the  floor,  a bit  of  rosin, 

A fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs,  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there’s  been  frozen,) 


Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,) 

Then  a few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 
And  Roger  and  I set  up  for  kings ! 


No,  thank  ye,  sir — I never  drink ; 

Roger  and  I are  exceedingly  moral — 

Aren’t  we,  Roger? — see  him  wink! — 

Well,  something  hot,  then — we  won’t  quarrel. 
He’s  thirsty,  too — see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can’t  talk ! 

He  understands  every  word  that’s  said — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 


THE  VAGABONDS. 


103 


The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I reflect, 

I’ve  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 

I wonder  I’ve  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here’s  to  you,  sir!)  even  of  my  dog. 

But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 

And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He’ll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  isn’t  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a miserable,  thankless  master ! 

No,  sir! — see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin ! 

By  George ! it  makes  my  old  eyes  water ! 

That  is,  there’s  something  in  this  gin 
That  chokes  a fellow.  But  no  matter  ! 

We’ll  have  some  music,  if  you’re  willing, 

And  Roger  (hem ! what  a plague  a cough  is,  sir  !) 
Shall  march  a little. — Start,  you  villian! 

Stand  straight ! ’Bout  face  ! Salute  your  officer! 
Put  up  that  paw  ! Dress ! Take  your  rifle ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see !)  Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a trifle, 

To  aid  a poor  old  patriot  soldier ! 

March  ! Halt ! Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes, 
When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 

Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 
To  honor  a jolly  new  acquaintance. 

Five  yelps — that’  five;  he’s  mighty  knowing! 

The  night’s  before  us,  fill  the  glasses ! — 

Quick,  sir ! I’m  ill — my  brain  is  going  ! — 

Some  brandy  ! — thank  you  ! — there  ! — it  passes ! 

Why  not  reform  ? That’s  easily  said ; 

But  I’ve  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 

That  my  poor  stomach’s  past  reform; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 

I’d  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 
To  prop  a horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 

A dear  girl’s  love — but  I took  to  drink ; — 

The  same  old  story;  you  know  how  it  ends. 


If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features — 

You  needn’t  laugh,  sir;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a burning  libel  on  God’s  creatures ; 

I was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 

If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn’t  have 
guessed 

That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 
To  you  to-night  for  a glass  of  grog ! 

She’s  married  since — a parson’s  wife  : 

’Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part — 

Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a blasted  home  and  a broken  heart. 

I have  seen  her?  Once : I was  weak  and  spent 
On  the  dusty  road,  a carriage  stooped : 

But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  T 

You’ve  set  me  talking,  sir;  I’m  sorry  ! 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 

What  do  you  care  for  a beggar’s  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ? you  find  it  strange  ? 

I had  a mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

’Twas  well  she  died  before Do  you  know 

If  the  happy  spirit  in  heaven  can  see 
The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 
This  pain  ; then  Roger  and  I will  start. 

I wonder,  has  he  such  a lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a heart  ? 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep  if  he  could. 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were — 

A virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a sober,  respectable  cur. 

I’m  better  now  ; that  glass  was  warming — 

You  rascal ! limber  your  lazy  feet ! 

We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. 

Not  a very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 

And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink ; — 
The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


104 


THE  CAUSE  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  TEMPERANCE. 

R enterprise  is  in  advance  of  the  public  sentiment, 
and  those  who  carry  it  on  are  glorious  iconoclasts, 
who  are  going  to  break  down  the  drunken  Dagon 
worshipped  by  their  fathers.  Count  me  over  the 
chosen  heroes  of  this  earth,  and  I will  show  you 
men  that  stood  alone — ay,  alone,  while  those 
they  toiled,  and  labored,  and  agonized  for,  hurled 
at  them  contumely,  scorn,  and  contempt.  They 
stood  alone ; they  looked  into  the  future  calmly 
and  with  faith ; they  saw  the  golden  beam  inclin- 
ing to  the  side  of  perfect  justice ; and  they  fought 
on  amidst  the  storm  of  persecution.  In  Great 
*itain  they  tell  me  when  I go  to  see  such  a prison 
* — “There  is  such  a dungeon  in  which  such  a one  was  confined;”  “ Here,  among 
the  ruins  of  an  old  castle  we  will  show  you  where  such  a one  had  his  ears  cut  off, 
and  where  another  was  murdered.”  Then  they  will  show  me  monuments  towering 
up  to  the  heavens — “There  is  a monument  to  such  a one:  there  is  a monument 
to  another.”  And  what  do  I find  ? That  the  one  generation  persecuted  and  howled 
at  these  men,  crying  “ Crucify  them  ! crucify  them  ! ” and  dancing  around  the  blaz- 
ing fagots  that  consumed  them ; and  the  next  generation  busied  itself  in  gathering 
up  the  scattered  ashes  of  the  martyred  heroes  and  depositing  them  in  the  golden 
urn  of  a nation’s  history.  Oh,  yes  ! the  men  that  fight  for  a great  enterprise  are  the 
men  that  bear  the  brunt  of  the  battle,  and  “ He  who  seeth  in  secret  ” — seeth  the 
desire  of  his  children,  their  steady  purpose,  their  firm  self-denial — “ will  reward 
them  openly,”  though  they  may  die  and  see  no  sign  of  the  triumphs  of  their  en- 
terprise. 

Our  cause  is  a progressive  one.  I have  read  the  first  constitution  of  the  first 
temperance  society  formed  in  the  State  of  New  York  in  1809,  and  one  of  the 
by-laws  stated,  “Any  member  of  this  association  who  shall  be  convicted  of  intoxi- 
cation shall  be  fined  a quarter  of  a dollar,  except  such  act  of  intoxication  shall 
take  place  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  or  any  other  regularly  appointed  military  muster.” 
We  laugh  at  that  now  ; but  it  was  a serious  matter  in  those  days  : it  was  in  advance 
of  the  public  sentiment  of  the  age.  The  very  men  who  adopted  that  principle  were 
persecuted : they  were  hooted  and  pelted  through  the  streets,  the  doors  of  their 
houses  were  blackened,  their  cattle  mutilated. 

The  fire  of  persecution  scorched  some  men  so  that  they  left  the  work.  Others 
worked  on,  and  God  blessed  them.  Some  are  living  to-day ; and  I should  like  to 
stand  where  they  stand  now,  and  see  the  mighty  enterprise  as  it  rises  before  them. 
They  worked  hard.  They  lifted  the  first  turf — prepared  the  bed  in  which  to  lay  the 
corner-stone.  They  laid  it  amid  persecution  and  storm.  They  worked  under  the 


THREE  FRIENDS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


io  6 


SHUN  THE  BOWL. 


surface ; and  men  almost  forgot  that  there  were  busy  hands  laying  the  solid  foun 
dation  far  down  beneath. 

By-and-by  they  got  the  foundation  above  the  surface,  and  then  began  another 
storm  of  persecution.  Now  we  see  the  superstructure — pillar  after  pillar,  tower 
after  tower,  column  after  column,  with  the  capitals  emblazoned  with  “ Love,  truth, 
sympathy,  and  good  will  to  men.”  Old  men  gaze  upon  it  as  it  grows  up  before; 
them.  They  will  not  live  to  see  it  completed ; but  they  see  in  faith  the  crowning 
cope-stone  set  upon  it.  Meek-eyed  women  weep  as  it  grows  in  beauty ; children' 
strew  the  pathway  of  the  workmen  with  flowers. 

We  do  not  see  its  beauty  yet — we  do  not  see  the  magnificence  of  its  superstructure- 
yet — because  it  is  in  course  of  erection.  Scaffolding,  ropes,  ladders,  workmen  as- 
cending and  descending,  mar  the  beauty  of  the  building:  but  by-and-by,  when  the 
hosts  who  have  labored  shall  come  up  over  a thousand  battle-fields  waving  with 
bright  grain  never  again  to  be  crushed  in  the  distillery — through  vineyards,  under 
trellised  vines,  with  grapes  hanging  in  all  their  purple  glory,  never  again  to  be 
pressed  into  that  which  can  debase  and  degrade  mankind — when  they  shall  come 
through  orchards,  under  trees  hanging  thick  with  golden,  pulpy  fruit,  never  to  be 
turned  into  that  which  can  injure  and  debase — when  they  shall  come  up  to  the  last 
distillery  and  destroy  it;  to  the  last  stream  of  liquid  death  and  dry  it  up;  to  the  last 
weeping  wife  and  wipe  her  tears  gently  away;  to  the  last  child  and  lift  him  up  to 
stand  where  God  meant  that  child  and  man  should  stand ; to  the  last  drunkard  and 
nerve  him  to  burst  the  burning  fetters  and  make  a glorious  accompaniment  to  the 
song  of  freedom  by  the  clanking  of  his  broken  chains — then,  ah  ! then  will  the  cope- 
stone  be  set  upon  it,  the  scaffolding  will  fall  with  a crash,  and  the  building  will  stand 
in  its  wondrous  beauty  before  an  astonished  world.  Loud  shouts  of  rejoicing  shall 
then  be  heard,  and  there  will  be  joy  in  heaven  when  the  triumphs  of  a great  enter- 
prise usher  in  the  day  of  the  triumphs  of  the  cross  of  Christ. 

John  B.  Gough.. 


SHUN  THE  BOWL. 

Y thy  dread  of  sin  and  sorrow, 

By  thy  fear  of  shame  and  strife, 

. By  each  dark,  despairing  morrow, 
Lengthening  still  a wretched  life ; 
By  the  chains  that,  worse  than  iron, 
Burn  the  brain,  and  sear  the  soul, 

By  the  torments  it  environ, 

Dearest  children,  shun  the  bowl ! 

By  the  hopes  thou  wouldst  not  wither, 

By  the  love  that  round  thee  clings, 
Never  turn  thy  footsteps  whither 
Wild  the  maniac  drunkard  sings! 

Enter  not  the  poisoned  vapor, 

Whto'e  oaths  and  fumes  together  roll, 
Kneel  and  pray  by  lonely  taper, 

Pray  for  strength  to  shun  the  bowl. 


By  bleared  eye,  and  voice  whose  quaking 
Fills  the  agony  within, 

By  the  palsied  hand,  which  shaking 
Ever  lifts  the  draft  of  sin, 

By  the  torment  still  increasing  , 

Gnawing  brain,  and  harrowing  souk 
Thirst  uns'ated  and  unceasing, 

Dearest  children,  shun  the  bowl! 

By  each  holy  kiss,  thy  mother 
On  thy  infant  forehead  pressed. 

Love  of  father,  sister,  brother, 

All  that  purifies  thy  breast ; 

By  the  hope  of  Heaven  within  thee, 

Oh  ! debase  not  mind  and  soul — 

Let  not  sin’s  own  chalice  win  thee; — 

Dearest  children,  shun  the  bowl. 

Eljza  H.  Barker, 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


107 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


The  following  is  pronounced  by  the  Westminster  Review  to  be  unquestionably  the  finest  American  poem  ever  written. 


ITHIN  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air, 
Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and 
bare. 


The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O’er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales. 

Sent  down  the  air  a greeting  to  the  mills, 

On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  streams  sang  low; 
As  in  a dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 

Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beated  host  of  old. 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time’s  remotest  blue. 

On  slumberous  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight, 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate’s  complaint. 
And,  like  a star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 

Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before — 

Silent  till  some  replying  wanderer  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  elm’s  tall  crest 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  the  unfledged  young : 
And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest 
By  every  light  wind  like  a censer  swung ; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes. 

An  early  harvest  and  a plenteous  year ; 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn. 
To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  east — 

All  now  were  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 


Alone,  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy  gloom 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 

Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night; 

The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  sheds  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  her  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 
Sat  like  a Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  sorrow.  He  had  walked  with  her. 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust ; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all; 

And  twice  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 
Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that  drew. 
And  struck  fur  liberty  the  dying  blow ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell,  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on. 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  a hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a sad  and  tremulous  tone, 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head  was  bowed: 
Life  drooped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene; 

And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud — 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene 
Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


io8 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


£*38  ULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
j&y  And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing ; 
Toll  ye  the  church  bell  sad  and  slow, 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still : he  doth  not  move ; 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a friend,  and  a true  true-love, 

And  the  New  year  will  take  ’em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 

A jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But,  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  aud  cry  with  you, 

I’ve  half  a mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 


He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o’er. 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 

But  he’ll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New  year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  ! over  the  snow 
I heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 

The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 

The  cricket  chirps  : the  light  burns  low : 

’Tis  nearly  twelve  o’clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we’ll  dearly  rue  for  you : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  ! our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes : tie  up  his  chin  : 

Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There’s  a new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 


IO9 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 


That  old  familiar 
tree, 

Whose  glory  and 
renown 

Are  spread  o’er  land 
and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou 
hew  it  down  ? 

Woodman,  forbear 
thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth- 
bound  ties; 

O,  spare  that  aged 
oak, 

Now  towering  to  the 
skies ! 


OODMAN, 
spare  that 
tree  ! 

Touch  not 
a single 
bough ! 
In  youth 
it  shel- 
tered me, 

And  I’ll  protect  it 
now. 

’Twas  my  forefather’s 
hand 

That  placed  it  near 
his  cot; 

There,  woodman,  let 
it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm 
it  not ! 


When  but  an  idle  boy 

I sought  its  grateful  shade ; 

In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand ! 


WHEN  SPARROWS  BUILD. 


HEN  sparrows  build, 
and  the  leaves 
break  forth, 

My  old  sorrow 
wakes  and 
cries. 

For  I know  there  is  dawn  in 
the  far,  far  north, 

And  a scarlet  sun  doth  rise ; 

Like  a scarlet  fleece  the  snow- 
fieid  spreads, 

And  the  icy  fount  runs 
free  ; 

And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow 
their  heads, 

And  plunge  and  sail  in  the 
sea. 

Oh,  my  lost  love,  and  my 
own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved 
me  so  ! 

Is  there  never  a chink  in  the 
world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words 
from  below  ? 

Nay,  I spoke  once,  and  I 
grieved  thee  sore ; 

I remembered  all  that  I 
said; 

And  thou  wilt  hear  me  no 
more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her 
dead. 


Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 
To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow ; 

Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  not  avail, 
And  the  end  I could  not  know. 

How  could  I tell  I should  love  thee  to-day. 
Whom  that  day  I held  not  dear  ? 

How  could  I tell  I should  love  thee  away 
When  I did  not  love  thee  a-near  ? 


My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 

Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 

Old  tree  ! the  storm  still  brave ! • 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 

While  I’ve  a hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  hurt  it  not. 

George  Perkins  Morris. 


We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain. 
With  the  faded  bents  o’erspread; 

We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 
While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o’erhead;- 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  rain 
Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said ; 

But  perhaps  I shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 
When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Tean  Ingelow. 


no 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

IAVE  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a merry  company  of 
children  assembled  round  that  pretty  German  toy,  a Christmas 
tree. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only  person  in  the 
house  awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn  back,  by.  a fascination  which 
I do  not  care  to  resist,  to  my  childhood.  Straight  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  cramped  in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  encircling 
walls  or  soon-reached  ceiling,  a shadowy  tree  arises;  and,  looking 
up  into  the  dreamy  brightness  of  its  top — for  I observe  in  this  tree 
the  singular  property  that  it  appears  to  grow  downward  towards 
the  earth — I look  into  my  youngest  Christian  recollections. 

All  toys  at  first  I find.  But  upon  the  branches  of  the  tree,  lower  down,  how 
thick  the  books  begin  to  hang ! Thin  books,  in  themselves,  at  first,  but  many  of 
them  with  deliciously  smooth  covers  of  bright  red  or  green.  What  fat  black  letters 
to  begin  with ! 

“A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a frog.”  Of  course  he  was.  He  was  an  apple-pie 
also,  and  there  he  is ! He  was  a good  many  things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and  so  were 
most  of  his  friends,  except  X,  who  had  so  little  Versatility  that  I never  knew  him  to 
get  beyond  Xerxes  or  Xantippe : like  Y,  who  was  always  confined  to  a yacht  or  a 
yew-tree ; and  Z,  condemned  forever  to  be  a zebra  or  a zany. 

But  now  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and  becomes  a bean-stalk — the  marvellous 
bean-stalk  by  which  Jack  climbed  up  to  the  giant’s  house.  Jack — how  noble,  with 
his  sword  of  sharpness  and  his  shoes  of  swiftness ! 

, Good  for  Christmas-time  is  the  ruddy  color  of  the  cloak  in  which,  the  tree  mak- 
ing a forest  of  itself  for  her  to  trip  through  with  her  basket,  Little  Red  Riding-Hood 
comes  to  me  one  Christmas  eve,  to  give  me  information  of  the  cruelty  and  treach- 
ery of  that  dissembling  wolf  who  ate  her  grandmother,  without  making  any  impres- 
sion on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate  her,  after  making  that  ferocious  joke  about  his 
teeth.  She  was  my  first  love.  I felt  that  if  I could  have  married  Little  Red  Rid- 
ing-Hood I should  have  known  perfect  bliss.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  there  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  look  out  the  wolf  in  Noah’s  Ark  there,  and  put  him  late  in  the 
procession  on  the  table,  as  a monster  who  was  to  be  degraded. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  Noah’s  Ark!  It  was  not  found  seaworthy  when  put  in  a 
washing-tub,  and  the  animals  were  crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and  needed  to  have  their 
legs  well  shaken  down  before  they  could  be  got  in  even  then ; and  then  ten  to  one 
but  they  began  to  tumble  out  at  the  door,  which  was  but  imperfectly  fastened  with 
a wire  latch  ; but  what  was  that  against  it? 

Consider  the  noble  fly,  a size  or  two  smaller  than  the  elephant ; the  lady-bird,  the 
butterfly — all  triumphs  of  art ! Consider  the  goose,  whose  feet  were  so  small  and 
whose  balance  was  so  indifferent  that  he  usually  tumbled  forward  and  knocked  down 
all  the  animal  creation ! Consider  Noah  and  his  family,  like  idiotic  tobacco-stop- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


Ill 


pers ; and  how  the  leopard  stuck  to  warm  little  fingers ; and  how  the  tails  of  the 
larger  animals  used  gradually  to  resolve  themselves  into  frayed  bits  of  string. 

Hush ! Again  a forest  and  somebody  up  in  a tree — not  Robin  Hood,  not  Valen- 
tine, not  the  Yellow  Dwarf — I have  passed  him  and  all  Mother  Bunch’s  wonders 
without  mention — but  an  Eastern  King,  with  a glittering  scymitar  and  turban.  It  is 
the  setting-in  of  the  bright  Arabian  Nights. 

Oh,  now  all  common  things  become  uncommon  and  enchanted  to  me ! All 
lamps  are  wonderful ! all  rings  are  talismans  ! Common  flower-pots  are  full  of 
treasure,  with  a little  earth  scattered  on  the  top  ; trees  are  for  Ali  Baba  to  hide  in  ; 
beefsteaks  are  to  throw  down  into  the  Valley  of  Diamonds,  that  the  precious  stones 
may  stick  to  them,  and  be  carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests,  whence  the  traders, 
with  loud  cries,  will  scare  them.  All  the  dates  imported  come  from  the  same  tree 
as  that  unlucky  one  with  whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked  out  the  eye  of  the 
genii’s  invisible  son.  All  olives  are  of  the  same  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit  concerning 
which  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard  the  boy  conduct  the  fictitious  trial 
of  the  olive-merchant.  Yes,  on  every  object  that  I recognize  among  those  upper 
branches  of  my  Christmas  tree  I see  this  fairy  light ! 

But  hark ! the  Waits  are  playing,  and  they  break  my  childish  sleep ! What 
images  do  I associate  with  the  Christmas  music  as  I see  them  set  forth  on  the 
Christmas  tree ! Known  before  all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart  from  all  the  others, 
they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An  angel,  speaking  to  a group  of  shepherds  in  a 
field;  some  travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  following  a star;  a baby  in  a manger;  a 
child  in  a spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men  ; a solemn  figure,  with  a mild 
and  beautiful  face,  raising  a dead  girl  by  the  hand ; again,  near  a city  gate,  calling 
back  the  son  of  a widow,  on  his  bier,  to  life ; a crowd  of  people  looking  through 
the  opened  roof  of  a chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down  a sick  person  on  a 
bed,  with  ropes;  the  same,  in  a tempest,  walking  on  the  waters ; in  a ship,  again,  on 
a sea-shore,  teaching  a great  multitude ; again,  with  a child  upon  his  knee,  and 
other  children  around;  again,  restoring  sight  to  the  blind,  speech  to  the  dumb, 
hearing  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the  sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowledge  to  the 
ignorant ; again,  dying  upon  a cross,  watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a darkness  com- 
ing on,  the  earth  beginning  to  shake,  and  only  one  voice  heard,  “ Forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do  ! ” 

Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas  time,  still  let  the  benignant  figure 
of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged ! In  every  cheerful  image  and  suggestion  that 
the  season  brings,  may  the  bright  star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof  be  the  star 
of  all  the  Christian  world  ! 

A moment’s  pause,  O vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower  boughs  are  dark  to  me 
yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more.  I know  there  are  blank  spaces  on  thy  branches, 
where  eyes  that  I have  loved  have  shone  and  smiled,  from  which  they  are  departed. 
But,  far  above,  I see  the  Raiser  of  the  dead  girl  and  the  widow’s  son — and  God  is 
good!  . Charles  Dickens. 


12 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


OU  must  wake  and  call  me  early, 
call  me  early,  mother  dear; 
To-morrow  ’ll  be  the  happiest  time 
of  all  the  glad  New  Year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New  Year,  mother, 
the  maddest,  merriest  day  ; 
For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May, 
mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the 
May. 

There’s  many  a black,  black  eye, 
they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as 
mine ; 

There’s  Margaret  and  Mary,  there’s 
Kate  and  Caroline ; 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all 
the  land,  they  say; 

So  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

I sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I shall  never 
wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to 
break : 

But  I must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  gar- 
lands gay, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

As  I came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye  should  I see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel- 
tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I gave  him 
yesterday — 

But  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

He  thought  I was  a ghost,  mother,  for  I was  all  in 
white, 

And  I ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a flash  of 

li^it. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I care  not  what  they 
say, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

They  say  he*s  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that 
to  me  ? 

There’s  many  a bolder  lad  ’ll  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

Little  Eftie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you’ll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 
Queen  ; 

For  the  Shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ll  come  from  far 
away, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its  wavy 
bowers ; 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet 
cuckoo-flowers ; 


And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in 
swamps  and  hollows  gray, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the 
meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as 
they  pass ; 

There  will  not  be  a drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  live- 
long day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  bt 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  ’ll  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ll  merrily  glance 
and  play. 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May^  mother,  I’m  to  bfcr 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear; 

To-morrow  ’ll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New 
Year ; 

To-morrow  ’ll  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merriest 
day ; 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be 
Queen  o’  the  May. 

If  you’re  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear, 

For  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year. 

It  is  the  last  New  Year  that  I shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould,  and  think  no- 
more  of  me. 

To-night  I saw  the  sun  set : he  set  and  left  behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my 
peace  of  mind ; 

And  the  New  Year’s  coming  up,  mother,  but  I shall 
never  see 

The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a crown  of  flowers ; we  had  a 
merry  day ; 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me 
Queen  of  May ; 

And  we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and  in  the  hazel 
copse, 

Till  Charles’s  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white 
chimney-tops. 

There’s  not  a flower  on  all  the  hills ; the  frost  is  on 
the  pane : 

I only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 

I wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on 
high : 

I long  to  see  a flower  so  before  the  day  I die. 

The  building  rook  ’ll  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm 
tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 


“As  I came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye  should  I see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I gave  him  yesterday — 

But  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May/* 

8 (”3) 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


I 14 


And  the  swallow  ’ll  come  back  again  with  summer 
o’er  the  wave, 

But  I shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering 
grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement  and  upon  that  grave  of 
mine, 

In  the  early,  early  morning,  the  summer  sun  ’ll  shine, 

Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 

When  you  are  warm  asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world 
is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the 
waning  light, 

You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at 
night ; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 
cool 

On  the  oat-grass,  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush 
in  the  pool. 

You’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn 
shade, 

And  you’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I am 
lowly  laid. 

I shall  not  forget  you,  mother;  I shall  hear  you  when 
you  pass, 

With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant 
grass. 

I have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you’ll  forgive  me 
now ; 

You’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my  cheek  and 
brow; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep  nor  let  your  grief  be 
wild, 

You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother;  you  have  another 
child. 

If  I can  I’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting- 
place  ; 

Though  you’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I shall  look  upon 
your  face ; 

Though  I cannot  speak  a word,  I shall  hearken  what 
you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I’m  far 
away. 

Good-night,  good  night;  when  I have  said  good-night 
forevermore, 

And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the 
door, 

Don’t  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  grow- 
ing  green. 

She’ll  be  a better  child  to  you  than  ever  I have  been. 

She’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor. 

Let  her  take  ’em — they  are  hers;  I shall  never  garden 
more; 

But  tell  her,  when  I’m  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush 
that  I set 

About  the  parlor-window,  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is 
born. 

All. night  I lie  awake,  but  I fell  asleep  at  morn; 


But  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year, 

So,  if  you’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I hear  the  bleating  of  the 
lamb. 

How  sadly,  I remember,  rose  th£  morning  of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet’s 
here. 

O sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the 
skies, 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  Iamb’s  voice  to  me  that  can- 
not rise. 

And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  the  flowers  that 
blow, 

And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  longs  to 
g°- 

It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed 
sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay;  and  yet,  His  will 
be  done ! 

But  still  I think  it  can’t  be  long  before  I find  release; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words 
of  peace. 

O blessings  on  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet 
me  there ! 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  heart,  and  on  his  silver 

head! 

A thousand  times  I blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my 
bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  showed  me  all  the 
sin ; 

Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there’s  One 
will  let  me  in ; 

Nor  would  I now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that 
could  be, 

For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1 did  not  hear  the  dog  howi,  mother,  or  the  death 

watch  beat, 

There  came  a sweeter  token  when  the  night  and 
morning  meet ; 

But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in 
mine, 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  the  angels 
call ; 

It  was  when  the  morn  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was 
over  all ; 

The  bees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to 
roll, 

And  in  the  wild  March -morning  I heard  them  call 
my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I thought  of  you  and  Effie 
dear; 

I saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I no  longer  here : 


LIGHT 


With  all  my  strength  I prayed  for  both,  and  so  I felt 
resigned, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I listened  in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I know  not 
what  was  said ; 

For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my 
mind. 

And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I said,  “It’s  not  for 
them;  it’s  mine.” 

And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I thought,  I take  it  for  a 
sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window- 
bars, 

Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven  and  die  among 
the  stars. 

So  now  I think  my  time  is  near ; I trust  it  is.  I know 

The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have 
to  go. 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I care  not  if  I go  to-day, 

But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I am  passed 
away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to 
' fret; 

There’s  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him 
happy  yet. 


115 


If  I had  lived — I cannot  tell — I might  have  been  his 
wife; 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire 
of  life. 

O look  ! the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a 
glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I 
know. 

And  there  I move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light 
may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day 
is  done, 

The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the 
sun — 

Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ? why  make 
we  such  ado  ? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a blessed  home — 

And  there  to  wait  a little  while  till  you  and  Effie 
come — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I lie  upon  your 
breast — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest. 


LIGHT. 


HE  night  has  a thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one ; 

Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one ; 

Yet  the  light  of  a whole  life  dies 
When  its  day  is  done. 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon. 


THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 


1 1 6 


THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 


TOP ! for  thy  tread  is  on  an  empire’s 
dust ; 

An  earthquake’s  spoil  is  sepul- 
chred below  ; 

Is  the  spot  marked  with  no  colos- 
sal bust  ? , 

Nor  column  trophied  for  tri- 
umphal show  ? 

None ; but  the  moral’s  truth  tells 
simpler  so. 

As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let 
it'be. 

How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gained  by  thee. 

Thou  first  and  last  of  fields,  king-making  victory? 

There  was  a sound  of  revelry  by  night, 

And  Belgium’s  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry ; and  bright 

The  lamps  shone  o’er  fair  women  and  brave  men : 
A thousand  hearts  beat  happily ; and  when 
Music  arose,  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 

Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a marriage-bell. 

But  hush ! hark ! a deep  sound  strikes  like  a rising 
knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? No  ; ’twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o’er  the  stony  street : 

On  with  the  dance  ! let  joy  be  unconfined  ! 

No  sleep  till  morn  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet ! — 

But  hark  ! that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before. 

Arm  ! arm  ! it  is,  it  is  the  cannon’s  opening  roar! 

Within  a windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick’s  fated  chieftain  ; he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amid  the  festival, 

And  caught  its  tone  with  death’s  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
H is  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a bloody  bier, 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell ; 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell ! 

Ah  ! then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne’er  might  be  repeated  : who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise  ? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  : the  steed, 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 

And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal,  afar, 


And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning-star; 

While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  “ The  foe  ! they  come  !' 
they  come  ! ” 

And  wild  and  high  the  “ Cameron’s  gathering”  rose, 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn’s  hills 
Have  heard — and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  : 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill  ! But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a thousand  years, 

And  Evan’s,  Donald’s  fame,  rings  in  each  clansman’s 
ears  ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature’s  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e’er  grieves, 

Over  the  unreturning  brave — alas  ! 

Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 

And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty’s  circle  proudly  gay. 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms — the  day 
Battle’s  magnificently  stern  array  ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o’er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse — friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent  l 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 

Yet  one  I would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 

And  partly  that  I did  his  sire  some  wrong, 

And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song! 

And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  showered 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinned  files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war’s  tempest  lowered, 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gal- 
lant Howard  ! 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I such  to  give ; 

But  when  I stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 

Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 

With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 

I turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not 
bring. 

I turned  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 

The  Archangel’s  trump,  not  glory’s,  must  awake 


WRR,  WITH  ITS  GRIM-¥ISfiGED  FRONT.” 


(ii7) 


1 1 8 


THE  LIGHT  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 


Those  whom  they  thirst  for;  though  the  sound  of 
Fame 

May  for  a moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honored  but  assumes  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ; and,  smiling,  mourn ; 

The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 

The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness;  the  ruined  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind- worn  battlements  are  gone ; 

The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthrall ; 


The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on  ; 

Even  as  a broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies,  and  makes 
A thousand  images  of  one  that  was  . 

The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shattered  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 

And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  itches. 

Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 

Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

NOWLEDGE  cannot  be  stolen  from  you.  It  cannot  be  bought 
or  sold.  You  may  be  poor,  and  the  sheriff  come  into  your 
house,  and  sell  your  furniture  at  auction,  or  drive  away  your 
cow,  or  take  your  lamb,  and  leave  you  homeless  and  penniless ; 
but  he  cannot  lay  the  law’s  hand  upon  the  jewelry  of  your  mind. 
This  cannot  be  taken  for  debt ; neither  can  you  give  it  away, 
though  you  give  enough  of  it  to  fill  a million  minds. 

I will  tell  you  what  such  giving  is  like.  Suppose,  now,  that 
there  were  no  sun  nor  stars  in  the  heavens,  nor  anything  that 
shone  in  the  black  brow  of  night ; and  suppose  that  a lighted 
lamp  were  put  into  your  hand,  which  should  burn  wasteless  and  clear  amid  all  the 
tempests  that  should  brood  upon  this  lower  world. 

Suppose,  next,  that  there  were  a thousand  millions  of  human  beings  on  the  earth 
with  you,  each  holding  in  his  hand  an  unlighted  lamp,  filled  with  the  same  oil  as 
yours,  and  capable  of  giving  as  much  light.  Suppose  these  millions  should  come, 
one  by  one,  to  you  and  light  each  his  lamp  by  yours,  would  they  rob  you  of  any 
light?  Would  less  of  it  shine  on  your  own  path?  Would  your  lamp  burn  more 
dimly  for  lighting  a thousand  millions  ? 

Thus  it  is,  young  friends.  In  getting  rich  in  the  things  which  perish  with  the 
using,  men  have  often  obeyed  to  the  letter  that  first  commandment  of  selfishness: 
“ Keep  what  you  can  get,  and  get  what  you  can.”  In  filling  your  minds  with  the 
wealth  of  knowledge,  you  must  reverse  this  rule,  and  obey  this  law : “ Keep  what 
you  give,  and  give  what  you  can.” 

The  fountain  of  knowledge  is  filled  by  its  outlets,  not  by  its  inlets.  You  can 
learn  nothing  which  you  do  not  teach ; you  can  acquire  nothing  of  intellectual 
wealth,  except  by  giving.  In  the  illustration  of  the  lamps,  which  I have  given  you, 
was  not  the  light  of  the  thousands  of  millions  which  were  lighted  at  yours  as  much 
your  light,  as  if  it  all  came  from  your  solitary  lamp  ? Did  you  not  dispel  darkness 
by  giving  away  light  ? 

Remember  this  parable,  and,  whenever  you  fall  in  with  an  unlighted  mind  in  your 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 


I 19 

walk  of  life,  drop  a kind  and  glowing  thought  upon  it  from  yours,  and  set  it  a-burn- 
ing  in  the  world  with  a light  that  shall  shine  in  some  dark  place  to  beam  on  the 
benighted.  Elihu  Burritt. 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 


IS  midnight’s  holy  hour — 
and  silence  now 
Is  brooding  like  a gentle 
spirit  o’er 

The  still  and  pulseless 
world.  Hark ! on  the 
winds 

The  bell’s  deep  tones  are 
swelling — ’tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.  No 
funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past;  yet,  on 
the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the 
moonbeams  rest 
Like  a pale,  spotless  shroud; 

the  air  is  stirred 
As  by  a mourner’s  sigh ; and 
on  yon  cloud 

That  floats  so  still  and  pla- 
cidly through  heaven 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons 
seem  to  stand — 

Young  Spring,  bright  Sum- 
mer, Autumn’s  solemn 
form, 

And  Winter  with  its  aged 
locks — and  breathe, 

In  mournful  cadences  that 
come  abroad 

Like  the  fair  wind-harp’s  wild  and  touching  wail, 

A melancholy  dirge  o’er  the  dead  year, 

Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 


’Tis  a time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.  Within  the  deep, 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a spectre  dim, 

Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard’s  voice  of  Time 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away. 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.  That  spectre  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  Hope  and  Joy  and  Love, 

And  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O’er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 


The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it  many  a glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.  Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.  In  its  swift  course 
It  waved  its  sceptre  o’er  the  beautiful,  , 

And  they  are  not.  It  laid  its  pallid  hand 


Upon  the  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

It  passed  o’er 

The  battle-plain  where  sword  and  spear  and  shield 
Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday,  and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 

Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  mouldering  skeleton.  It  came, 
And  faded  like  a wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 

Yet  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe ! what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?  On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  forever,  The  proud  bird, 

The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven’s  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder’s  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 

And  night’s  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinions. 

Revolutions  sweep 
O’er  earth  like  troubled  visions  o’er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow ; cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water;  fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain ; new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 

And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 

Startling  the  nations ; and  the  very  stars, 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 

Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 

And,  like  the  Pleiads,  loveliest  of  their  train, 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void — yet  Time, 

Time  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 

George  Denison  PrenticB. 


120 


DIES  IRJE. 


A MIGHTY  FORTRESS  IS  OUR  GOD. 

“ Ein’  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott.” 

MIGHTY  fortress  is 
our  God, 

A bulwark  never 
failing. 

Our  helper  he  amid 
the  flood 

Of  mortal  ills  pre- 
vailing. 

For  still  our  ancient 
foe 

Doth  seek  to  work 
us  woe ; 

His  craft  and  power 
are  great, 

And,  armed  with 
equal  hate, 

On  earth  is  not  his 
equal. 

Did  we  in  our  own  strength  confide, 

Our  striving  would  be  losing ; 

Were  not  the  right  man  on  our  side, 

The  man  of  God’s  Qwn  choosing. 

Dost  ask  who  that  may  be  ? 

Christ  Jesus,  it  is  he, 

Lord  Sabaoth  his  name, 

From  age  to  age  the  same, 

And  he  must  win  the  battle. 

Srom  the  German  of  Martin  Luther.  Translation  of  Fred- 
eric Henry  Hedge. 


DIES  1RM. 

[A  Latin  poem  by  Thomas  of  Celano  (a  Neapolitan  village), 
about  A.  d.  1250.  Perhaps  no  poem  has  been  more  frequently 
translated.  A German  collector  published  eighty-seven  versions 
in  German.  The  version  here  given  preserves  the  measure  of 
the  original. J 

That  day,  a day  of  wrath,  a day  of  trouble  and  distress,  a 
day  of  wasteness  and  desolation,  a day  of  darkness  and  gloomi- 
ness, a day  of  clouds  and  thick  darkness,  a day  of  the  trumpet 
and  alarm  against  the  fenced  cities,  and  against  the  high  towers  ! 
— Zephaniah  i.  15,  16. 

AY  of  vengeance,  without  morrow! 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and 
sorrow, 

As  from  Saint  and  Seer  we  bor- 
row. 

Ah  ! what  terror  is  impending, 
When  the  Judge  is  seen  descend- 
ing, 

And  each  secret  veil  is  rending  ! 

To  the  throne,  the  trumpe-  sound- 
ing, 

Through  the  sepulchres  resound- 
ing. 

Summons  all,  with  voice  astound- 
ing. 


Death  and  Nature,  mazed,  are  quaking-, 
When,  the  grave’s  long  slumber  breaking, 
Man  to  judgment  is  awaking. 

On  the  written  Volume’s  pages. 

Life  is  shown  in  all  its  stages — 
Judgment-record  of  past  ages. 

Sits  the  Judge,  the  raised  arranging, 
Darkest  mysteries  explaining, 

Nothing  unavenged  remaining. 

What  shall  I then  say,  unfriended, 

By  no  advocate  attended, 

When  the  just  are  scarce  defended? 

King  of  majesty  tremendous, 

By  thy  saving  grace  defend  us, 

Fount  of  pity,  safety  send  us ! 

Holy  Jesus,  meek,  forbearing, 

For  my  sins  the  death-crown  wearing, 

Save  me,  in  that  day,  despairing ! 

Worn  and  weary,  thou  hast  sought  me; 

By  thy  cross  and  passion  bought  me — 

Spare  the  hope  thy  labors  brought  me ! 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution, 

Give,  O give  me  absolution 
Ere  the  day  of  dissolution ! 

As  a guilty  culprit  groaning, 

Flushed  my  face,  my  errors  owing, 

Hear,  O God,  my  spirit’s  moaning! 

Thou  to  Mary  gav’st  remission, 

Heard’st  the  dying  thief’s  petition, 

Bad’st  me  hope  in  my  contrition. 

In  my  prayers  no  grace  discerning. 

Yet  on  me  thy  fkvor  turning, 

Save  my  soul  from  endless  burning ! 

Give  me,  when  thy  sheep  confiding 
Thou  art  from  the  goats  dividing, 

On  thy  right  a place  abiding ! 

When  the  wicked  are  confounded, 

And  by  bitter  flames  surrounded, 

Be  my  joyful  pardon  sounded  I 

Prostrate,  all  my  guilt  discerning, 

Heart  as  though  to  ashes  turning ; 

Save,  O save  me  from  the  burning ! 

Day  of  weeping,  when  from  ashes 
Man  shall  rise  mid  lightning  flashes— 
Guilty,  trembling  with  contrition — - 
Save  him,  Father,  from  perdition  ! 

John  A.  Dia. 


AT  THE  FIRESIDE. 


121 


4?  bi 


j?f4  i^HEFlf\ESlDE' 

tf  all  jbjJfclje  fibel  igfyt’s  cfyeets 
icfsjjify  K^^ajrgAfctsMii^ . flear,  || 
Wqs  nie  tellof  Jfyiitgf  ttyat:u/ere 
Wl)e»i  X ws  little  j (/$  t like  Ifer,  fs- 1 

%k  , v%  i‘|| 

1), tittle  lipp  yorf  toifc t|e  sp^a 

N v ©f  sWeetest  sad  ^cwjben'ojr^iilji 
1 1 ($t)d  '^eart})‘a^A,l)eart:  flasfy  altacjW 
:j  Wit!)  rdtfctytii|ts.Q|  !®ifg  tyr 

V-  ~~  * ^ 

^ at  «i)y  fatl)eWd  fireside  sit 
S \odif)gest  of  ,dlW1)'&  circle  iU 
/(»)((  b^gjfin^  tellmje  W))at did  lfeit 
WHetJl .|)e>,«/ftsltttle  jdst  liKe.nje: 


V % 


1 


./> 


"2sr 


% 


122 


A RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  RUMP. 


A RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 

Scene— The  corner  of  two  principal  streets.  The  Town  Pump  talking  through  its  note. 


OON  by  the  north  clock;  noon  by  the  east;: 
high  noon,  too,  by  these  hot  sunbeams  which 
fall,  scarcely  aslope,  upon  my  head  and  almost 
make  the  water  bubble  and  smoke  in  the 
trough  under  my  nose.  Truly  we  public 
characters  have  a tough  time  of  it ! And,  among  all  the 
town  officers  chosen  at  March  meeting,  where  is  he  that 
sustains  for  a single  year  the  burden  of  such  manifold 
duties  as  are  imposed  in  perpetuity  upon  the  Town 
Pump?  The  title  of  “town  treasurer”  is  rightfully  mine, 
as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that  the  town  has.  The 
overseers  of  the  poor  ought  to  make  me  their  chairman,, 
since  I provide  bountifully  for  the  pauper  without  ex- 
pense to  him  that  pays  taxes.  I am  at  the  head  of  the 
fire  department  and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  board  of 
health.  As  a keeper  of  the  peace,  all  water-drinkers  will 
confess  me  equal  to  the  constable.  I perform  some  of 
the  duties  of  the  town  clerk  by  promulgating  public  no- 
tices when  they  are  posted  on  my  front.  To  speak  within  bounds,  I am  the  chief 
person  of  the  municipality,  and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to  my  bro- 
ther officers  by  the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and  impartial  discharge  of  my 
business,  and  the  constancy  with  which  I stand  to  my  post.  Summer  or  winter,  no- 
body  seeks  me  in  vain — for  all  day  long  I am  seen  at  the  busiest  corner,  just  above 
the  market,  stretching  out  my  arms  to  rich  and  poor  alike,  and  at  night  I hold  a 
lantern  over  my  head  both  to  show  where  I am  and  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide  I am  cupbearer  to  the  parched  populace,  for  whose  benefit 
an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my  waist.  Like  a dramseller  on  the  mall  at  muster- 


A RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 


I23 


day,  I cry  aloud  to  all  and  sundry  in  my  plainest  accents  and  at  the  very  tip-top  of 
my  voice.  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  ! Here  is  the  good  liquor ! Walk  up,  walk  up, 
gentlemen  ; walk  up,  walk  up  ! Here  is  the  superior  stuff!  Here  is  the  unadulter- 
ated ale  of  father  Adam — better  than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or 
wine  of  any  price ; here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the  single  glass,  and  not  a cent  to 
pay ! Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  yourselves  ! 

It  were  a pity  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no  customers.  Here  they  come!  A 
hot  day,  gentlemen  ! Quaff  and  away  again,  so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a nice  coo! 


sweat.  You,  my  friend,  will  need  another  cupful  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your  throat, 
if  it  be  as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cowhide  shoes.  I see  that  you  have  trudged 
half  a score  of  miles  to-day,  and,  like  a wise  man,  have  passed  by  the  taverns  and 
stopped  at  the  running  brooks  and  well-curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt  heat  without  and 
fire  within,  you  would  have  been  burnt  to  a cinder  or  melted  down  to  nothing  at  all 
in  the  fashion  of  a jelly-fish.  Drink,  and  make  room  for  that  other  fellow  who  seeks 
my  aid  to  quench  the  fiery  fever  of  last  night’s  potations. which  he  drained  from  no 
cup  of  mine.  Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir!  You  and  I have  been  great  strangers 


124 


A RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 


hitherto ; nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be  anxious  for  a closer  intimacy 
till  the  fumes  of  your  breath  be  a little  less  potent.  Mercy  on  you,  man!  the  water 
absolutely  hisses  down  your  red-hot  gullet  and  is  converted  quite  to  steam  in  the 
miniature  tophet  which  you  mistake  for  a stomach.  Fill  again,  and  tell  me,  on  the 
word  of  an  honest  toper,  did  you  ever,  in  cellar,  tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a dram-shop, 
spend  the  price  of  your  children’s  food  for  a swig  half  so  delicious  ? Now,  for  the 
first  time  these  ten  years,  you  know  the  flavor  of  cold  water.  Good-by,  and  when- 
ever you  are  thirsty,  remember  that  I keep  a constant  supply  at  the  old  stand.  Who 
next?  Oh,  my  little  friend,  you  are  let  loose  from  school  and  come  hither  to  scrub 
your  blooming  face  and  drown  the  memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule  and  other 
schoolboy  troubles  in  a draught  from  the  Town  Pump.  Take  it,  pure  as  the  current 
of  your  young  life.  Take  it,  and  may  your  heart  and  tongue  never  be  scorched  with 
a fiercer  thirst  than  now ! There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup  and  yield  your 
place  to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving-stones  that 
I suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them.  What ! he  limps  by  without  so  much  as 
thanking  me,  as  if  my  hospitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have  no 
wine-cellars.  Well,  well,  sir — no  harm  done,  I hope ! Go  draw  the  cork,  tip  the 
decanter ; but  when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will  be  no  affair  of 
mine.  If  gentlemen  love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the  gout,  it  is  all  one  to  the  Town 
Pump.  This  thirsty  dog,  with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out,  does  not  scorn  my  hospi- 
tality, but  stands  on  his  hind  legs  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough.  See  how 
lightly  he  capers  away  again!  Jowler,  did  your  worship  ever  have  the  gout?  . . . 

Your  pardon,  good  people.  I must  interrupt  my  stream  of  eloquence  and  spout 
forth  a stream  of  water  to  replenish  the  trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two  yoke 
of  oxen  who  have  come  from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere  along  that  way.  No  part  of 
my  business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look  how  rapidly  they  lower 
the  water-mark  on  the  sides  of  the  trough  till  their  capacious  stomachs  are  moist- 
ened with  a gallon  or  two  apiece,  and  they  can  afford  time  to  breathe  it  in  with  sighs 
of  calm  enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around  the  brim  of  their  mon- 
strous drinking-vessel.  An  ox  is  your  true  toper.  . . . 

Ahem  ! Dry  work  this  speechifying,  especially  to  an  unpractised  orator.  I never 
conceived  till  now  what  toil  the  temperance  lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake.  Hereafter 
they  shall  have  the  business  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian,  pump  a stroke 
or  two  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir.  My  dear  hearers,  when  the  world 
shall  have  been  regenerated  by  my  instrumentality,  you  will  collect  your  useless  vats 
and  liquor-casks  into  one  great  pile  and  make  a bonfire  in  honor  of  the  Town  Pump. 
And  when  I shall  have  decayed,  like  my  predecessors,  then,  if  you  revere  my  memory, 
let  a marble  fountain,  richly  sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  the  spot.  Such  monu- 
ments should  be  erected  everywhere.  . . . 

One  o’clock.  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  begins  to  speak,  I may  as  well  hold 
my  peace.  Here  comes  a pretty  young  girl  of  my  acquaintance  with  a large  stone 
pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May  she  draw  a husband  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


125 


did  of  old ! Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear.  There  it  is,  full  to  the  brim ; so  now 
run  home,  peeping  at  your  sweet  image  in  the  pitcher  as  you  go,  and  forget  not,  in 
a glass  of  my  own  liquor,  to  drink  “ Success  to  the  Town  Pump  ! ” 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


ER  a spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands; 
The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy 
hands; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny 
arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and 
long ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest 
sweat — 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can, 


And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge. 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school. 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  the  threshing-floor. 


He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 
And  sits  among  his  boys ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach ; 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 


Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 


It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 


Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend. 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  1 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought  1 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


126 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


“ Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

- Nor  grandeur  here,  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor." — Gray. 

loved,  my  honored,  much-respected 
friend, 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage 
pays : 

With  honest  pride  I scoin  each 
selfish  end; 

My  dearest  meed,  a friend’s  es- 
teem and  praise. 

To  you  I sing  in  simple  Scottish 
lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequested  scene; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 
What  Aiken  in  a cottage  would  have  been ; 

Ah  ! though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I 
ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a close ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  blackening  trains  o’  craws  to  their  repose  ; 


The  toilworn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes — 

• This  night  his  weekly  maul  is  at  an  end — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his- hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor  his  course  does  hameward 
bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expeqtant  wee  things,  toddlin’,  stacher  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flichterin’  noise  an’  glees 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifie’s  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 

And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun  ; 

Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A cannie  errand  to  a neibor  town; 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a bra’  new  gown. 
Or  deposit  her  sair  won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


Wi’  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An’  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 

The  social  hours,  swift- winged,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  : 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 

Their  master’s  and  their  mistress’  command, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey ; 

And  mind  their  labors  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 

And  ne’er,  though  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play ; 


“An’,  O,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway! 

An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an’  night! 

Lest  in  temptations  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might; 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright.” 

But,  hark ! a rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  who  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 

Tells  how  a neibor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

Wi’  heart-struck  anxious  care  inquires  his  name, 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


127 


While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 

Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it’s  nae  wild,  worth- 
less rake. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A strappin’  youth;  he  taks  the  mother’s  e’e; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs  and  kye. 
The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’  joy, 

But  blate  and  lathefu’,  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  an’  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn’s  respected  like  the 
lave. 


To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck  fell. 
An’  aft  he’s  prest,  an’  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 

How  ’twas  a towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu*  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha’-Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride; 

His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an’  bare : 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care ; 

And  “ Let  us  worship  God ! ” he  says  with  solemt? 
air. 


O,  happy  love  ! where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O,  heartfelt  raptures  ! bliss  beyond  compare ! 

I’ve  pa'cdd  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

If  heaven  a draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

’Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening 
gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a heart, 

A wretch,  a villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth  ? 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  ! dissembling  smooth ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child, 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  hallan,  snugly  chows  her  cood; 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim: 
Perhaps  “ Dundee’s”  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  “ Martyrs,”  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  “ Elgin  ” beats  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page — 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven’s  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme — 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head ; 

How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a land; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 


128 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 


Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand, 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounced  by 
heaven’s  command. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  to  heaven’s  eternal  King 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope  “springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing” 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion’s  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  train,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 

But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur  springs. 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

“An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God ! ” 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue’s  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind : 

What  is  a lordling’s  pomp  ? — a cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  humankind, 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 

O Scotia ! my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  heaven  is  sent. 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace  and  sweet  con- 
tent ! 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 


OME  reck- 
on their 
age  by 
i years, 
Some 
measure  their  life 
by  art ; 

But  some  tell  their 
days  by  the  flow 
of  their  tears, 

And  their  lives  by 
the  moans  of  theii 
heart. 


The  dials  of  earth 
may  show 
The  length,  not  the 
depth  of  years — 
Few  or  many  they 
come,  few  or 
many  they  go — 
But  time  is  best 
measured  by  tears. 
Ah  ! not  by  the  silver 
gray 

That  creeps  through 
the  sunny  hair, 


And  not  by  the  scenes  that  we  pass  on  our  way, 
And  not  by  the  furrows  the  fingers  of  care 


On  forehead  and  face  have  made — • 

Not  so  do  we  count  our  years; 

Not  by  the  Sun  of  the  earth,  but  the  shade 
Of  our  souls,  and  the  fall  of  our  tears. 

For  the  young  are  ofttimes  old, 

Though  their  brows  be  bright  and  fair; 

While  their  blood  beats  warm,  their  hearts  are  cold-« 
O’er  them  the  spring — but  winter  is  there. 

And  the  old  are  ofttimes  young 
When  their  hair  is  thin  and  white  ; 

And  they  sing  in  age,  as  in  youth  they  sung, 

And  they  laugh,  for  their  cross  was  light. 

But,  bead  by  bead,  I tell 
The  Rosary  of  my  years ; 

From  a cross — to  a cross  they  lead ; ’t  i*  well, 

And  they’re  blest  with  a blessing  of  tears. 


O Thou ! who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace’s  undaunted 
heart ; 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot’s  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian  and  reward!) 

O never,  never  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 

Robert  Burns. 


Better  a day  of  strife 

Than  a century  of  sleep; 

Give  me  instead  of  a long  stream  of  life 
The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

A thousand  joys  may  foam 

On  the  billows  of  all  the  years ; 

But  never  the  foam  brings  the  lone  back  home — • 
He  reaches  the  haven  through  tears. 

Abram  J.  Ryan, 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 


29 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 


HE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 
And  all  that’s  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 
Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half-impaired  the  nameless  grace 
"Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o’er  her  face ; 

f 9 


Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling  pla«e. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o’er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 

Lord  Byron. 


TACT  AND  TALENT. 


r3° 


TACT  AND  TALENT. 

ALENT  is  something,  but  tact  is  everything.  Talent  is  serious,  sober, 
grave  and  respectable : tact  is  all  that,  and  more  too.  It  is  not  a sixth 
sense,  but  it  is  the  life  of  all  the  five.  It  is  the  open  eye,  the  quick  ear, 
the  judging  taste,  the  keen  smell,  and  the  lively  touch ; it  is  the  inter- 
preter of  all  riddles,  the  surmounter  of  all  difficulties,  the  remover  of  all  obstacles. 
It  is  useful  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times ; it  is  useful  in  solitude,  for  it  shows  a man 
his  way  into  the  world ; it  is  useful  in  society,  for  it  shows  him  his  way  through  the 
world. 

Talent  is  power,  tact  is  skill ; talent  is  weight,  tact  is  momentum ; talent  knows 
what  to  do,  tact  knows  how  to  do  it;  talent  makes  a man  respectable,  tact  will  make 
liim  respected ; talent  is  wealth,  tact  is  ready  money. 

For  all  the  practical  purposes  of  life,  tact  carries  it  against  talent,  ten  to  one. 
Take  them  to  the  theatre,  and  put  them  against  each  other  on  the  stage,  and  talent 
shall  produce  you  a tragedy  that  will  scarcely  live  long  enough  to  be  condemned, 
while  tact  keeps  the  house  in  a roar,  night  after  night,  with  its  successful  farces. 
There  is  no  want  of  dramatic  talent,  there  is  no  want  of  dramatic  tact ; but  they  are 
seldom  together : so  we  have  successful  pieces  which  are  not  respectable,  and 
respectable  pieces  which  are  not  successful. 

Take  them  to  the  bar,  and  let  them  shake  their  learned  curls  at  each  other  in  legal 
rivalry.  Talent  sees  its  way  clearly,  but  tact  is  first  at  its  journey’s  end.  Talent 
has  many  a compliment  from  the  bench,  but  tact  touches  fees  from  attorneys  and 
clients.  Talent  speaks  learnedly  and  logically,  tact  triumphantly.  Talent  makes 
the  world  wonder  that  it  gets  on  no  faster,  tact  excites  astonishment  that  it  gets  on 
so  fast.  And  the  secret  is,  that  tact  has  no  weight  to  carry  ; it  makes  no  false  steps  ; 
it  hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head ; it  loses  no  time ; it  takes  all  hints ; and,  by  keep- 
ing its  eye  on  the  weathercock,  is  ready  to  take  advantage  of  every  wind  that 
blows. 

Take  them  into  the  church.  Talent  has  always  something  worth  hearing,  tact  is 
sure  of  abundance  of  hearers  ; talent  may  obtain  a living,  tact  will  make  one ; talent 
gets  a good  name,  tact  a great  one ; talent  convinces,  tact  converts ; talent  is  an 
honor  to  the  profession,  tact  gains  honor  from  the  profession. 

Take  them  to  court.  Talent  feels  its  weight,  tact  finds  its  way;  talent  commands, 
tact  is  obeyed  ; talent  is  honored  with  approbation,  and  tact  is  blessed  by  preferment 

Place  them  in  the  Senate.  Talent  has  the  ear  of  the  house,  but  tact  wins  its 
heart  and  has  its  votes ; talent  is  fit  for  employment,  but  tact  is  fitted  for  it.  Tact 
has  a knack  of  slipping  into  place  with  a sweet  silence  and  glibness  of  movement, 
as  a billiard-ball  insinuates  itself  into  the  pocket.  It  seems  to  know  everything, 
without  learning  anything.  It  has  served  an  invisible  and  extemporary  apprentice- 
ship; it  wants  no  drilling;  it  never  ranks  in  the  awkward  squad;  it  has  no  left 
hand,  no  deaf  ear,  no  blind  side.  It  puts  on  no  looks  of  wondrous  wisdom,  it  has 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH 


131 

no  air  of  profundity,  but  plays  with  the  details  of  place  as  dexterously  as  a well- 
taught  hand  flourishes  over  the  keys  of  the  piano-forte.  It  has  all  the  air  of  com- 
monplace, and  all  the  force  and  power  of  genius.  London  “ Atlas.” 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH. 

HE  mistletoe  hung  in 
the  castle  hall, 
The  holly  branch 
shone  on  the  old 
oak  wall ; 

And  the  baron’s  re- 
tainers were  blithe 
and  gay, 

And  keeping  their 
Christmas  h o 1 i - 
day. 

The  baron  beheld 
with  a father’s 
pride 

His  beautiful  child, 
young  Lovell’s 
bride ; 

While  she  with  her 
bright  eyes 
seemed  to  be 
The  star  of  the 
goodly  company. 

“ I’m  weary  of  danc- 
ing now,”  she 
cried ; 

“ Here  tarry  a mo- 
ment— I’ll  hide, 
I’ll  hide ! 

And,  Lovell,  be  sure 
t h o u ’ r t first  to 
trace 

The  clew  to  my 
secret  lurking- 
place.” 

Away  she  r a n — 
and  her  friends 
began 

Each  tower  to 
search,  and  each 
nook  to  scan ; 

And  young  Lovell 
cried,  “ O,  where 
dost  thou  hide  ? 
I’m  lonesome  with- 
out thee,  my  own  dear  bride.” 

They  sought  her  that  night,  and  they  sought  her  next 
day, 

And  they  sought  her  in  vain  when  a week  passed 
away; 

In  the  highest,  the  lowest,  the  loneliest  spot, 

Young  Lovell  sought  wildly — but  found  her  not. 

And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last 
Was  told  as  a sorrowful  tale  long  past; 

And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  children  cried, 

“See  ! the  old  man  weeps  for  his  fairy  bride.” 


At  length  an  old  oak  chest,  that  had  long  lain  hid. 
Was  found  in  the  castle — they  raised  the  lid, 

And  a skeleton  form  lay  mouldering  there 
In  the  bridal  wreath  of  that  lady  fair! 

O,  sad  was  her  fate  ! — in  sportive  jest 
She  hid  from  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest. 

It  closed  with  aspring! — and  dreadful  doom, 

The  bride  lay  clasped  in  her  living  tomb ! 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

REAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O sea ! 

And  I would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 
O well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on, 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanished  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O sea  I 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


132 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 


FAR  in  the  desert 
I love  to  ride, 
With  the  s i- 
lent  Bush-boy 
alone  by  my 
side ; 

When  the  sor- 
rows of  life  the 
soul  o’ercasl, 
And,  sick  of  the 
present,  I 
cling  to  the 
past ; 

When  the  eye  is 
suffused  with 
regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond 
recollections  of 
former  years; 
And  shadows  of 
things  that  have 
long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the 
brain,  like  the 
ghosts  of  the 
dead — 

Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too  soon ; 
Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood’s  noon; 
Attachments  by  fate  or  falsehood  reft; 

Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left ; 

And  my  native  land,  whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood ; the  haunts  of  my 
prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 
When  the  feelings  were  young,  and  the  world  was 
new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view ; 
All,  all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  foregone! 

And  I,  a lone  exile  remembered  of  none, 

My  high  aims  abandoned,  my  good  acts  undone, 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may 
scan, 

I fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  ! 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife, 
The  proud  man’s  frown,  and  the  base  man’s  fear, 

The  scorner’s  laugh,  and  the  sufferer’s  tear, 

And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and 
folly, 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy; 

When  my  bosom  is  full  and  rr*y  thoughts  are  high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman’s  sigh — 

©,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy  and  pride, 

Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride  ! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle’s  speed, 

With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand — 

The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land ! 


Afar  in  the  desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer’s  haunt,  by  the  buffalo’s  glen ; 

By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartdbeest 
graze, 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunte.d  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o’erhung  with  wild 
vine ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 
And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood. 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

O’er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively; 

And  the  timorous  quagga’s  shrill  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray; 

Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 

With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain; 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 

Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 

Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest. 

Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer’s  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 

Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast 

Where  the  white  man’s  foot  hath  never  passed. 

And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan— 

A region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 

Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  $ncj 
fear ; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 

With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone; 

Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 

And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink, 

Is  the  pilgrim’s  fare  by  the  salt  lake’s  brink ; 

A region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides. 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 

Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 

Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye ; 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 

And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 

Spread — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh. 

And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 

As  I sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb’s  cave,  alone, 

“A  still  small  voice  ” comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 

Saying — Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near ! 

Thomas  Pringli* 


ANNABEL  LEE. 


133 


ANNABEL  LEE. 


T was  many  and  many  a year  ago, 

In  a kingdom  by  the  sea, 

That  a maiden  there  lived,  whom 
may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  ^ith  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 


you 


1 was  a child,  and  she  was  a child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 

But  we  loved  with  a love  that  was  more  than 
love, 

I and  my  Annabel  Lee — 

With  a love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 


And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

A wind  blew  out  of  a cloud,  chilling 
My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 

So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 
And  bore  her  away  from  me, 

To  shut  her  up  in  a sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me, 

Yes ! that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 

That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


134 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 


But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 
Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 

And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 
I Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 

And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I feel  the  bright  eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  so  all  the  night-time,  I lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 
In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

OT  a drum  was  heard, 
not  a funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the 
rampart  we  hur- 
ried ; 

Not  a soldier  dis- 
charged his  fare- 
well shot  / 
O’er  the  grave 
where  our  hero 
1 we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly 
at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our 
bayonets  turning; 
By  the  struggling 
moonbeam’s  misty 
light, 

And  the  lantern 
dimly  burning. 

N o useless  coffin  enclosed 
his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in 
shroud  we  wound 
him  ; 

But  he  lay,  like  a warrior 
taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak 
around  him. 


Lightly  they’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that’s  gone, 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; • 

But  little  he’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a Briton  has  laid  him  ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  by  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory! 

We  carved  not  a line,  and  we  raised  not  a stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


THE  BROOK. 


COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern; 

I make  a sudden  sally, 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern. 

To  bicker  down  a valley. 


By  thirsty  hills  I hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a little  town. 

And  half  a hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s  farm  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  forever. 

I chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I babble  on  the  pebbles. 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


With  many  a curve  my  banks  I fret. 

By  many  a field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 


We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er  his 
head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 


I chatter,  chatter,  as  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  forever. 


OLD  GRIMES. 


135 


I wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a grayling ; 

And  here  and  there  a foamy  flake 
Upon  me  as  I travel, 

With  many  a silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  forever. 


I steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I slip,  I slide,  I gloom,  I glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I make  the  netted  sunbeams  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I loiter  round  my  cresses. 

And  out  again  I curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I go  on  forever. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


OLD  GRIMES. 

LD  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man — 
We  ne’er  shall  see  him  more; 

He  used  to  wear  a long  black  coat. 

All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true; 

His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray — 

He  wore  it  in  a queue. 

Whene’er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 

His  breast  with  pity  burned ; 

The  large  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design  ; 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small. 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind. 

In  friendship  he  was  true  ; 

His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 
He  passed  securely  o’er, 

And  never  wore  a pair  boots 
For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  Old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest. 

Nor  fears  misfortune’s  frown ; 

He  wore  a double-breasted  vest — 

The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  payMit  its  desert ; 

He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse — 

Was  sociable  and  gay  ; 

He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view, 

Nor  make  a noise  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 
In  trust  to  fortune’s  chances, 

But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares 
His  peaceful  moments  ran  ; 

And  everybody  said  he  was 
A fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  G.  Greene. 


i36 


A TRIBUTE  TO  OUR  HONORED  DEAD. 


A TRIBUTE  TO  OUR  HONORED  DEAD. 


OW  bright  are  the  honors  which  await  those  who  with 
sacred  fortitude  and  patriotic  patience  have  endured 
all  things  that  they  might  save  their  native  land 
from  division  and  from  the  power  of  corruption  ! 
The  honored  dead ! They  that  die  for  a good 
cause  are  redeemed  from  death.  Their  names  are 
garnered.  Their  memory  is  precious.  Each  place 
grows  proud  for  them  who  were  born  there.  There 
is  to  be,  ere  long,  in  every  village,  and  in  every 
neighborhood,  a glowing  pride  in  its  martyred 
heroes.  Tablets  shall  preserve  their  names.  Pious 
love  shall  renew  their  inscriptions  as  time  and  the  un- 
feeling elements  efface  them.  And  the  national  festi- 
vals shall  give  multitudes  of  precious  names  to  the 
orator’s  lips.  Children  shall  grow  up  under  more 
sacred  inspirations,  whose  elder  brothers,  dying  nobly 
for  their  country,  left  a name  that  honored  and  inspired 
all  who  bore  it.  Orphan  children  shall  find  thousands 
of  fathers  and  mothers  to  love  and  help  those  whom 
dying  heroes  left  as  a legacy  to  the  gratitude  of  the 
public. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  they  are  dead — that  generous 
host,  that  airy  army  of  invisible  heroes.  They  hover  as 
a cloud  of  witnesses  above  this  nation.  Are  they  dead 
that  yet  speak  louder  than  we  can  spoak,  and  a more 
universal  language  ? Are  they  dead  that  yet  act  ? Are 
they  dead  that  yet  move  upon  society  and  inspire  the 
people  with  nobler  motives  and  more  heroic  patriotism  ? 

Ye  that  mourn,  let  gladness  mingle  with  your  tears.  It 
was  your  son  : but  now  he  is  the  nation’s.  He  made  your 
household  bright:  now  his  example  inspires  a thousand 
households.  Dear  to  his  brothers  and  sisters,  he  is  now 
brother  to  every  generous  youth  in  the  land.  Before,  he  was 
narrowed,  appropriated,  shut  up  to  you.  Now  he  is  augmented,  set  free,  and  given 
to  all.  Before  he  was  yours : he  is  ours.  He  has  died  from  the  family  that  he 
might  live  to  the  nation.  Not  one  name  shall  be  forgotten  or  neglected : and  it 
shall  by-and-by  be  confessed  of  our  modern  heroes,  as  it  is  of  an  ancient  hero,  that 
he  did  more  for  his  country  by  his  death  than  by  his  whole  life. 

Neither  are  they  less  honored  who  shall  bear  through  life  the  marks  of  wounds 
and  sufferings.  Neither  epaulette  nor  badge  is  so  honorable  as  wounds  received  in 


(137) 


138 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


a good  cause.  Many  a man  shall  envy  him  who  henceforth  limps.  So  strange  is 
the  transforming  power  of  patriotic  ardor  that  men  shall  almost  covet  disfigurement. 
Crowds  will  give  way  to  hobbling  cripples,  and  uncover  in  the  presence  of  feeble- 
ness and  helplessness.  And  buoyant  children  shall  pause  in  their  noisy  games,  and 
with  loving  reverence  honor  those  whose  hands  can  work  no  more,  and  whose  feet 
are  no  longer  able  to  march  except  upon  that  journey  which  brings  good  men  to 
honor  and  immortality.  Oh,  mother  of  lost  children ! sit  not  in  darkness  nor  sor- 
row whom  a nation  honors.  Oh,  mourners  of  the  early  dead,  they  shall  live  again, 
and  live  forever.  Your  sorrows  are  our  gladness.  The  nation  lives  because  you 
gave  it  men  that  love  it  better  than  their  own  lives.  And  when  a few  more  days 
shall  have  cleared  the  perils  from  around  the  nation’s  brow,  and  she  shall  sit  in  un- 
sullied garments  of  liberty,  with  justice  upon  her  forehead,  love  in  her  eyes,  and 
truth  upon  her  lips,  she  shall  not  forget  those  whose  blood  gave  vital  currents  to 
her  heart,  and  whose  life,  given  to  her,  shall  live  with  her  life  till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

Every  mountain  and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured  name,  every  river  shall  keep 
some  solemn  title,  every  valley  and  every  lake  shall  cherish  its  honored  register ; and 
till  the  mountains  are  worn  out,  and  the  rivers  forget  to  flow,  till  the  clouds  are 
weary  of  replenishing  springs,  and  the  springs  forget  to  gush,  and  the  rills  to  sing, 
shall  their  names  be  kept  fresh  with  reverent  honors  which  are  inscribed  upon  the 
book  of  National  Remembrance.  Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


LOVE  it,  I love  it ! and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm- 
chair ? 

I’ve  treasured  it  long  as  a sainted  prize, 
I’ve  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I’ve  embalmed 
it  with  sighs. 

’Tis  bound  by  a thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 

Not  a tie  will  break,  not  a link  will  start; 

Would  you  know  the  spell? — a mother  sat  there  ! 

And  a sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood’s  hour  I lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would 
give 

To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  that  shame  would  never  be- 
tide 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my 
guide ; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer 
As  I knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I sat  and  watched  her  many  a day, 

When  her  eye  grew  dim  and  her  locks 
were  gray ; 

And  I almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled, 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped — 

My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled ! 


I learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear 
When  I saw  her  die  in  her  old  arm-chair. 

’Tis  past, ’tis  past ! but 
I gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath 
and  throbbing  brow: 

’T was  there  she  nursed 
me,  ’twas  there  she 
died, 


And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 

Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 

Whilst  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek; 

But  I love  it,  I love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a mother’s  old  arm-chair. 

Eliza  Cook. 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 


1 39 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

ADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown: 

You  thought  to  break  a country 
heart 

For  pastime  ere  you  went  to 

. Wn* 

At  n«ryou  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I raw  the  snare,  and  I retired : 

The  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name, 

Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 

Nor  would  I break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 

A simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 

For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I could  not  stoop  to  such  a mind. 

You  sought  to  prove  how  I could  love, 
And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 

The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
' Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head. 

Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 


Since  I beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A great  enchantress  you  may  be  : 

But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother’s  view, 

She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear; 

Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a spectre  in  your  hall : 

The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And.  last,  you  fixed  a vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 


Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers: 

The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a vague  disease, 

You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 

Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 

Oh,  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew, 

Pray  Heaven  for  a human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

Alfred  Tennyson- 


140 


THE  BELLS. 


THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  mellow  wed- 
ding bells — 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a world-  of  happiness 
their  harmony  fore- 
tells ! 

Through  the  balmy  air 
of  night 

How  they  ring  out  their 
delight ! 

From  the  molten-gol- 
den notes, 

All  in  tune, 

What  a liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens, 
while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 

O,  from  out  the  sound- 
ing cells, 

What  a gush  of  euphony  vo- 
luminously wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future ! how 
it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that 
impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the 
ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells, 
bells. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chim- 
ing of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  loud  alarum 
bells — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a tale  of  terror,  now, 
their  turbulency 
tells ! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 

Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 

They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune. 

In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire 
In  a mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 

With  a desperate  desire, 

And  a resolute  endeavor, 

Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 

By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 

O the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

What  a tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 

How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar? 

What  a horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  1 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 

By  the  twanging. 

And  the  clanging, 


EAR  the 
sle  dges 
with  the 
bells — 
Silver 
bells ! 
What  a 
world  of 
merriment  their  melody 
foretells ! 

How  they  tinkle,  tinkle, 
tinkle  ! 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a crystalline  delight — 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 

In  the  jangling, 

And  the  wrangling, 

How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells ! 

What  a world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com- 
pels ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 

For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 
Is  a groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 

They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 

Feel  a glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a stone — 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 


141 


They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — - 
They  are  ghouls : 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls, 

A paean  from  the  bells  ! 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 

And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a sOrt  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells : 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  Allan 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 


It  came — the  swift-winged  hurricane — 

Bursting  upon  the  shore, 

Till  the  wild  bird’s  nest  and  the  fisher’s  cot 
All  trembled  at  its  roar. 

And  women  wept,  and  watched  and  wept, 

And  prayed  for  the  night  to  wane ; 

And  watched  and  prayed,  though  the  setting  sun 
Lit  up  the  window-pane. 


HE  mackerel  boats  sailed  slowly  out 
Into  the  darkening  sea, 

But  the  gray  gull’s  flight  was  landward, 
The  kestrel  skimmed  the  lea. 


Strange  whisperings  were  in  the  air; 

And  though  no  leaflet  stirred, 

The  echo  of  the  distant  storm, 

The  moaning  sough,  was  heard. 


“ A sail ! ” That  sail  is  not  for  you  ; 

It  slowly  fades  away. 

The  sun  may  set ; the  moon  may  rise ; 

The  night  may  turn  to  day ; 

Slow  years  roll  by,  and  the  solemn  stars 
Glide  on — but  all  in  vain  ! 

They  have  sailed  away  on  a long,  long  voyage  ; 
They’ll  never  come  back  again. 

Sam.  Slick,  Jr. 


142 


TO  USSA INT  L’OU  VER  T URE. 


TOUSSAINT  L’OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint  L’Ouverture,  who  has  been  pronounced  one  of  the  greatest  statesmen  and  generals  of  the  nineteenth  century,  saved 
his  master  and  family  by  hurrying  them  on  board  a vessel  at  the  insurrection  of  the  negroes  of  Hayti.  He  then  joinecLthe  negro 
army,  and  soon  found  himself  at  their  head.  Napoleon  sent  a fleet  with  French  veterans,  with  orders  to  bring  him  to  France  at 
all  hazards.  But  all  the  skill  of  the  French  soldiers  could  not  subdue  the  negro  army  ; and  they  finally  made  a treaty,  placing 
Toussaint  L’Ouverture  governor  of  the  island.  The  negroes  no  sooner  disbanded  their  army,  than  a squad  of  soldiers  seized 
Toussaint  by  night,  and  taking  him  on  board  a vessel,  hurried  him  to  France.  There  he  was  placed  in  a dungeon,  and  finally 
starved  to  death. 

F I were  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Napoleon,  I should  take  it 
from  the  lips  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  language  rich 
enough  to  paint  the  great  captain  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Were  I to  tell  you  the  story  of  Washington,  I should  take  it 
from  your  hearts, — you,  who  think  no  marble  white  enough 
on  which  to  carve  the  name  of  the  Father  of  his  country. 
But  I am  to  tell  you  the  story  of  a negro,  Toussaint  L’Ouver- 
ture, who  has  left  hardly  one  written  line.  I am  to  glean  it 
from  the  reluctant  testimony  of  his  enemies,  men  who  des- 
pised him  because  he  was  a negro  and  a slave,  hated  him 
because  he  had  beaten  them  in  battle. 

Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army.  Napoleon,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-seven,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  best  troops  Europe  ever  saw. 
Cromwell  never  saw  an  army  till  he  was  forty ; this  man  never  saw  a soldier  till  he 
was  fifty.  Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army — out  of  what  ? Englishmen, — 
the  best  blood  in  Europe.  Out  of  the  middle  class  of  Englishmen, — the  best  blood 
of  the  island.  And  with  it  he  conquered  what  ? Englishmen, — their  equals.  This 
man  manufactured  his  army  out  of  what  ? Out  of  what  you  call  the  despicable  race 
of  negroes,  debased,  demoralized  by  two  hundred  years  of  slavery,  one  hundred 
thousand  of  them  imported  into  the  island  within  four  years,  unable  to  speak  a 
dialect  intelligible  even  to  each  other.  Yet  out  of  this  mixed,  and,  as  you  say, 
despicable  mass  he  forged  a thunderbolt  and  hurled  it  at  what?  At  the  proudest 
blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard,  and  sent  him  home  conquered ; at  the  most  warlike 
blood  in  Europe,  the  French,  and  put  them  under  his  feet;  at  the  pluckiest  blood  in 
Europe,  the  English,  and  they  skulked  home  to  Jamaica.  Now,  if  Cromwell  w&s  a 
general,  at  least  this  man  was  a soldier. 

Now,  blue-eyed  Saxon,  proud  of  your  race,  go  back  with  me  to  the  commence- 
ment of  the  century,  and  select  what  statesman  you  please.  Let  him  be  either 
American  or  European  ; let  him  have  a brain  the  result  of  six  generations  of  culture ; 
let  him  have  the  ripest  training  of  university  routine ; let  him  add  to  it  the  better 
education  of  practical  life ; crown  his  temples  with  the  silver  locks  of  seventy  years, 
and  show  me  the  man  of  Saxon  lineage  for  whom  his  most  sanguine  admirer  will 
wreathe  a laurel,  rich  as  embittered  foes  have  placed  on  the  brow  of  this  negro, — 
rare  military  skill,  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  content  to  blot  out  all 
party  distinctions,  and  trust  a state  to  the  blood  of  its  sons, — anticipating  Sir  Robert 


TO  A MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 


143 


Peel  fifty  years,  and  taking  his  station  by  the  side  of  Roger  Williams,  before  any 
Englishman  or  American  had  won  the  right ; and  yet  this  is  the  record  which  the 
history  of  rival  States  makes  up  for  this  inspired  black  of  St.  Domingo. 

Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro.  Go  to  Hayti,  and  stand  on  those  fifty 
thousand  graves  of  the  best  soldiers  France  ever  had,  and  ask  them  what  they  think 
of  the  negro’s  sword. 

I would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his  way  to  empire  over  broken 
oaths  and  through  a sea  of  blood.  This  man  never  broke  his  word.  I would  call 
him  Cromwell,  but  Cromwell  was  only  a soldier,  and  the  state  he  founded  went 
down  with  him  into  his  grave.  I would  call  him  Washington,  but  the  great  Vir- 
ginian held  slaves.  This  man  risked  his  empire  rather  than  permit  the  slave-trade 
in  the  humblest  village  of  his  dominions. 

You  think  me  a fanatic,  for  you  read  history,  not  with  your  eyes  but  with  your 
prejudices.  But  fifty  years  hence,  when  Truth  gets  a hearing,  the  Muse  of  history 
will  put  Phocion  for  the  Greek,  Brutus  for  the  Roman,  Hampden  for  England, 
Fayette  for  France,  choose  Washington  as  the  bright  consummate  flower  of  our 
earlier  civilization,  then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the  sunlight,  will  write  in  the  clear  blue, 
above  them  all,  the  name  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  martyr,  Toussaint 
L’Ouverture.  Wendell  Phillips. 


TO  A MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 


ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH 

E E,  modest,  crimson-tipped 
flower, 

Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil 
hour, 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the 
stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my 
power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas ! it’s  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  . 
meet, 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi’  spreckled  breast, 

When  upward  springing,  blithe  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield : 

But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 


THE  PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,  1 786. 

O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 

Thou  lilts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink, 

Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruined,  sink  ! 


144 


LOVE  LIGHTERS  LABOR. 


Even  thou  who  mourn’st  the  daisy’s  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  : 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight 
Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

Robert  Burns. 

MEMORY. 

The  following  poem  was  written  by  the  late  President,  during 
his  senior  year  in  Williams  College,  Mass.,  shortly  before  his 
graduation.  It  was  published  in  the  Williams  Quarterly  for 
March,  1856. 

'S  beauteous  night ; the 
stars  look  brightly 
down 

Upon  the  earth,  decked 
in  her  robe  of  snow. 
No  light  gleams  at  the 
windows,  save  my 
own, 

Which  gives  its  cheer 
to  midnight  and  to 
me. 

And  now,  with  noise- 
less step,  sweet  mem- 
ory comes 

And  leads  me  gently 
through  her  twilight 
realms. 

What  poet’s  tuneful  lyre 
has  ever  sung, 

Or  delicatest  pencil  e’er 
portrayed 

The  enchanted,  shad- 
owy land  where 
memory  dwells  ? 

It  has  its  valleys,  cheerless,  lone,  and  drear, 
Dark-shaded  by  the  mournful  cypress  tree ; 

And  yet  its  sunlit  mountain  tops  are  bathed 
In  Heaven’s  own  blue.  Upon  its  craggy  cliffs, 

Robed  in  the  dreamy  light  of  distant  years, 

Are  clustered  joys  serene  of  other  days. 

Upon  its  gently  sloping  hillsides  bend 
The  weeping  willows  o’er  the  sacred  dust 
Of  dear  departed  ones;  yet  in  that  land, 

Where’er  our  lootsteps  fall  upon  the  shore, 

They  that  were  sleeping  rise  from  out  the  dust 
Of  death’s  long,  silent  years,  and  round  us  stand 
As  erst  they  did  before  the  prison  tomb 
Received  their  clay  within  its  voiceless  halls. 

The  heavens  that  bend  above  that  land  are  hung 
With  clouds  of  various  hues,  Some  dark  and  chill, 
Surcharged  with  sorrow,  cast  their  sombre  shade 
Upon  the  sunny,  joyous  land  below. 

Others  are  floating  through  the  dreamy  air, 

White  as  the  falling  snow,  their  margins  tinged 
With  gold  and  crimsoned  hues;  their  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  flowery  meads  and  sunny  slopes, 

Soft  as  the  shadow  of  an  angel’s  wing. 

When  the  rough  battle  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  evening’s  peace  falls  gently  on  the  heart, 

I bound  away,  across  the  noisy  years, 

Unto  the  utmost  verge  of  memory’s  land, 

Where  earth  and  sky  in  dreamy  distance  meet, 


And  memory  dim  with  dark  oblivion  joins; 

Where  woke  the  first  remembered  sounds  that  fell 
Upon  the  ear  in  childhood’s  early  morn  ; 

And,  wandering  thence  along  the  rolling  years, 

I see  the  shadow  of  my  former  self 
Gliding  from  childhood  up  to  man’s  estate, 

The  path  of  youth  winds  down  through  many  a vale, 
And  on  the  brink  of  many  a dread  abyss, 

From  out  whose  darkness  comes  no  ray  of  light, 

Save  that  a phantom  dances  o’er  the  gulf 
And  beckons  toward  the  verge.  Again  the  path 
Leads  o’er  the  summit  where  the  sunbeams  fall; 

And  thus  in  light  and  shade,  sunshine  and  gloom, 
Sorrow  and  joy,  this  life-path  leads  along. 

James  A.  Garfield. 


LOVE  LIGHTENS  LABOR. 

GOOD  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn, 
And  thought,  with  a nervous  dread, 

Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  be  washed,  and 
more 

Than  a dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 

“ There’s  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the  field, 
And  the  children  to  fix  awdy 
To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and  churned; 
And  all  to  be  done  this  day.” 

It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 
Was  wet  as  it  could  be ; 

There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  besides 
A loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 

And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 
Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said, 

“ If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  wed!” 

“ Jennie,  what  do  you  think  I told  Ben  Brown  ? ” 
Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 

And  a flush  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow, 

And  his  eyes  half-bashfully  fell: 

“ It  was  this,”  he  said,  and  coming  near 
He  smiled,  and  stooping  down, 

Kissed  her  cheek — “ ’twas  this,  that  you  were  the  best 
And  the  dearest  wife  in  town  ! ” 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the  wife, 

In  a smiling,  absent  way, 

Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 
She’d  not  sung  for  many  a day. 

And  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the 
clothes 

Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea; 

Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was  sweet, 

And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

“Just  think,”  the  children  all  called  in  a breath, 

“ Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea  ! 

He  wouldn’t,  I know,  if  he’d  only  had 
As  happy  a home  as  we.” 

The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife  smiled 
To  herself,  as  she  softly  said : 

“ ’Tis  so  sweet  to  labor  for  those  we  love — 

It’s  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed ! ” 

Anonymous. 


10 


“IT  HAD  RAINED  IN  THE  NIGHT.” 


(>45) 


146 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


NE  more  unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  con- 
stantly 

Drips  from  her  cloth- 
ing; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing ! 

Touch  her  not  scorn- 
fully ! 

Think  of  her  mourn- 
fully, 

Gently  and  humanly — 

Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 

All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


Make  no  deep  scrutiny, 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 

Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 


Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers — 
One  of  Eve’s  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hejrs. 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 
Where  was  her  home  ? 


Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a sister  ? 

Had  she  a brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a dearer  one 
Still,  and  a nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  ! for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 

Oh,  it  was  pitiful ! 

Near  a whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 

Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed — 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God’s  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a light 
From  window  and  casement. 
From  garret  to- basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black,  flowing  river; 
Mad  from  life’s  history, 

Glad  to  death’s  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly— 

No  matter  how  coldly 


ON  TOLERATION. 


14  7 


The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it ! 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man ! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 


Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 

Smooth  and  compose  them  j 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! — 
Dreadfully  staring 


Through  muddy  impurity, 

As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 

Spurred  by  contumely, 

Cold  inhumanity, 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest ! 

Cross  her  hands  humbly. 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


ON  TOLERATION. 

NY  zeal  is  proper  for  religion  but  the  zeal  of  the  sword  and  the  zeal  of 
anger : this  is  the  bitterness  of  zeal,  and  it  is  a certain  temptation  to 
every  man  against  his  duty ; for  if  the  sword  turns  preacher,  and  dic- 
tates propositions  by  empire  instead  of  arguments,  and  engraves  them  in 
men’s  hearts  with  a poniard,  that  it  shall  be  death  to  believe  what  I innocently  and 
ignorantly  am  persuaded  of,  it  must  needs  be  unsafe  to  try  the  spirits,  to  try  all 
things,  to  make  inquiry;  and,  yet,  without  this  liberty,  no  man  can  justify  himself 
before  God  or  man,  nor  confidently  say  that  his  religion  is  best.  This  is  inordina- 
tion of  zeal ; for  Christ,  by  reproving  St.  Peter  drawing  his  sword  even  in  the  cause 
of  Christ,  for  his  sacred  and  yet  injured  person,  teaches  us  not  to  use  the  sword, 
though  in  the  cause  of  God,  or  for  God  himself. 

When  Abraham  sat  at  his  tent  door,  according  to  his  custom,  waiting  to  entertain 
strangers,  he  espied  an  old  man,  stooping  and  leaning  on  his  staff,  weary  with  age 
and  travail,  coming  towards  him,  who  was  a hundred  years  of  age.  He  received 
him  kindly,  washed  his  feet,  provided  supper,  caused  him  to  sit  down  ; but  observing 
that  the  old  man  eat,  and  prayed  not,  nor  begged  for  a blessing  on  his  meat,  he 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  worship  the  God  of  heaven.  The  old  man  told  him  that 
he  worshipped  the  fire  only,  and  acknowledged  no  other  God.  At  which  answer 
Abraham  grew  so  zealously  angry,  that  he  thrust  the  old  man  out  of  his  tent,  and 
exposed  him  to  all  the  evils  of  the  night,  and  an  unguarded  condition.  When  the 
old  man  was  gone,  God  called  to  Abraham,  and  asked  him  where  the  stranger  was. 
He  replied,  I thrust  him  away  because  he  did  not  worship  thee.  God  answered 
him,  I have  suffered  him  these  hundred  years  although  he  dishonored  me;  and 
couldst  not  thou  endure  him  one  night  ? 


Jeremy  Taylor. 


DEA  TIT  OF  LITTLE  KELL. 


148 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 

HE  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free 
from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed 
a creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for 
the  breath  of  life  : not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered 
death.  Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there 
some  winter-berries  and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  a 
spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor.  “ When  I die,  put 
near  me  something  that  has  loved  the  light,  and  had 
the  sky  above  it  always.”  These  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was 
dead.  Her  little  bird — a poor,  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a 
finger  would  have  crushed — was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage ; 
and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  motion- 
less forever.  Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her 
sufferings,  and  fatigues  ? All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead,  indeed, 
in  her ; but  peace  and  perfect  happiness  were  born — imaged — in 
her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change. 
Yes.  The  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same  sweet  face; 
it  had  passed,  like  a dream,  through  haunts  of  misery  and  care; 
at  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening, 
before  the  furnace-fire  upon  the  cold,  wet  night,  at  the  still  bed- 
side of  the  dying  boy,  there  had  been  the  same  mild  and  lovely 
look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their  majesty,  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  the  small,  tight  hand  folded  to  his 
breast  for  warmth.  It  was  the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last 
smile — the  hand  that  had  led  him  on  through  all  their  wanderings.  Ever  and  anon 
he  pressed  it  to  his  lips ; then  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it  was 
warmer  now ; and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked  in  agony  to  those  who  stood  around,  as 
if  imploring  them  to  help  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  help.  The  ancient  rooms  she  had 
seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her  own  was  waning  fast — the  garden  she  had 
tended — the  eyes  she  had  gladdened — the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a thoughtless 
hour — the  paths  she  had  trodden,  as  it  were,  but  yesterday — could  know  her  no 
more. 

“ It  is  not,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and 
’gave  his  tears  free  vent,  “ it  is  not  in  this  world  that  Heaven’s  justice  ends.  Think 
what  earth  is,  compared  with  the  world  to  which  her  young  spirit  has  winged  its 
early  flight,  and  say  if  one  deliberate  wish,  expressed  in  solemn  tones  above  this 
bed,  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would  utter  it ! ” 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 


I49 

She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They  were  all  about  her  at  the  time,  knowing  that 
the  end  was  drawing  on.  She  died  soon  after  daybreak.  They  had  read  and  talked 
to  her  in  the  early  portion  of  the  night ; but  as  the  hours  crept  on,  she  sank  to  sleep. 
They  could  tell,  by  what  she  faintly  uttered  in  her  dreams,  that  they  were  of  her 
journeyings  with  the  old  man  : they  were  of  no  painful  scenes,  but  of  those  who  had 
helped  them  and  used  them  kindly ; for  she  often  said  “ God  bless  you ! ” with 
great  fervor. 

Waking,  she  never  wandered  in  her  mind  but  once,  and  that  was  at  beautiful 
music,  which  she  said,  was  in  the  air.  God  knows.  It  may  have  been.  Opening  her 
eyes  at  last,  from  a very  quiet  sleep,  she  begged  that  they  would  kiss  her  once  again. 
That  done,  she  turned  to  the  old  man,  with  a lovely  smile  upon  her  face — such,  they 
said,  as  they  had  never  seen,  and  never  could  forget — and  clung,  with  both  her 
arms,  about  his  neck.  She  had  never  murmured  or  complained : but,  with  a quiet 
mind,  and  manner  quite  unaltered — save  that  she  every  day  became  more  earnest 
and  more  grateful  to  them — faded  like  the  light  upon  the  summer’s  evening. 

The  child  who  had  been  her  little  friend  came  there,  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  day,, 
with  an  offering  of  dried  flowers,  which  he  begged  them  to  lay  upon  her  breast. 
He  told  them  of  his  dream  again,  and  that  it  was  of  her  being  restored  to  them,  just 
as  she  used  to  be.  He  begged  hard  to  see  her,  saying  that  he  would  be  very  quiet, 
and  that  they  need  not  fear  his  being  alarmed,  for  he  had  sat  alone  by  his  younger 
brother  all  day  long  when  he  was  dead,  and  had  felt  glad  to  be  so  near  him.  They 
let  him  have  his  wish ; and,  indeed,  he  kept  his  word,  and  was,  in  his  childish  way, 
a lesson  to  them  all. 

Up  to  that  time,  the  old  man  had  not  spoken  once — except  to  her — or  stirred 
from  the  bedside.  But  when  he  saw  her  little  favorite,  he  was  moved  as  they  had 
not  seen  him  yet,  and  made  as  though  he  would  have  him  come  nearer.  Then, 
pointing  to  the  bed,  he  burst  into  tears  for  the  first  time,  and  they  who  stood  by, 
knowing  that  the  sight  of  this  child  had  done  him  good,  left  them  alone  together. 

Soothing  him  with  his  artless  talk  of  her,  the  child  persuaded  him  to  take  some 
rest,  to  walk  abroad,  to  do  almost  as  he  desired  him.  And,  when  the  day  came,  on 
which  they  must  remove  her,  in  her  earthly  shape,  from  earthly  eyes  forever,  he  led 
him  away,  that  he  might  not  know  when  she  was  taken  from  him.  They  were  to 
gather  fresh  leaves  and  berries  for  her  bed. 

And  now  the  bell — the  bell  she  had  so  often  heard  by  night  and  day,  and  listened 
to  with  solemn  pleasure,  almost  as  a living  voice — rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her,  so 
young,  so  beautiful,  so  good.  Decrepit  age,  and  vigorous  life,  and  blooming  youth, 
and  helpless  infancy,  poured  forth — on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  health  and  strength, 
in  the  full  blush  of  promise,  in  the  mere  dawn  of  life — to  gather  round  her  tomb. 
Old  men  were  there,  whose  eyes  were  dim  and  senses  failing ; grandmothers,  who 
might  have  died  ten  years  ago,  and  still  been  old ; the  deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame,  the 
palsied — the  living  dead,  in  many  shapes  and  forms — to  seethe  closing  of  that  early 
grave. 


50 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 


Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now,  pure  as  the  newly-fallen  snow  that 
covered  it — whose  day  on  earth  had  been  as  fleeting.  Under  that  porch  where  she 
had  sat  when  Heaven  in  its  mercy  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot,  she  passed 
again,  and  the  old  church  received  her  in  its  quiet  shade. 

They  carried  her  to  one  old  nook,  where  she  had  many  and  many  a time  sat 
musing,  and  laid  their  burden  softly  on  the  pavement.  The  light  streamed  on  it 
through  the  colored  window — a window  where  the  boughs  of  trees  were  ever  rus- 
tling in  the  summer,  and  where  the  birds  sang  sweetly  all  day  long.  With  every 
breath  of  air  that  stirred  among  those  branches  in  the  sunshine,  some  trembling, 
changing  light  would  fall  upon  her  grave. 

Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust.  Many  a young  hand  dropped  in  its 
little  wreath,  many  a stifled  sob  was  heard.  Some — and  they  were  not  few — knelt 
down.  All  were  sincere  and  truthful  in  their  sorrow.  The  service  done,  the 
mourners  stood  apart,  and  the  villagers  closed  round  to  look  into  the  grave  before 
the  stone  should  be  replaced. 

One  called  to  mind  how  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on  that  very  spot,  and  how  her 
book  had  fallen  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  gazing,  with  a pensive  face,  upon  the  sky. 
Another  told  how  he  had  wondered  much  that  one  so  delicate  as  she  should  be  so 
bold,  how  she  had  never  feared  to  enter  the  church  alone  at  night,  but  had  loved  to 
linger  there  when  all  was  quiet,  and  even  to  climb  the  tower-stair,  with  no  more  light 
than  that  of  the  moon-rays  stealing  through  the  loop-holes  in  the  thick  old  walls. 
A whisper  went  about  among  the  oldest  there,  that  she  had  seen  and  talked  with 
angels;  and  when  they  called  to  mind  how  she  had  looked,. and  spoken,  and  her 
early  death,  some  thought  it  might  be  so  indeed. 

Thus  coming  to  the  grave  in  little  knots,  and  glancing  down,  and  giving  place  to 
others,  and  falling  off  in  whispering  groups  of  three  or  four,  the  church  was  cleared, 
in  time,  of  all  but  the  sexton  and  the  mourning  friends.  Then,  when  the  dusk  of 
evening  had  come  on,  and  not  a sound  disturbed  the  sacred  stillness  of  the  place : 
when  the  bright  moon  poured  in  her  light  on  tomb  and  monument,  on  pillar,  wall, 
and  arch,  and,  most  of  all,  it  seemed  to  them,  upon  her  quiet  grave ; in  that  calm 
time,  when  all  outward  things  and  inward  thoughts  teem  with  assurances  of  im- 
mortality, and  worldly  hopes  and  fears  are  humbled  in  the  dust  before  them,  then, 
with  tranquil  and  submissive  hearts,  they  turned  away,  and  left  the  child  with  God. 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 


LL  quiet  along  the 
Potomac,”  they 
say, 

“ Except  now  and 
then  a stray 
picket 

Is  shot,  as  he  walks 
on  his  beat,  to 
and  fro, 

By  a rifleman  hid 
in  the  thicket. 
’Tis  nothing;  a pri- 
vate or  two,  now 
and  then, 

Will  not  count  in 
the  news  of  the 
battle ; 

Not  an  officer  lost — 
only  one  of  the 
men, 

Moaning  out,  all 
alone,  the  death- 
rattle.” 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac 
to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie 
peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the 
clear  autumn  moon. 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleam- 
ing. 

A tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 


There’s  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry’s  tread 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  he  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack  ; his  face',  dark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 

As  he  mutters  a prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 
For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her! 


The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 
That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low,  murmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken ; 

Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 


He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 

Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 
Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 

Hark  ! was  it  the  night- wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 

It  looked  like  a rifle  : “ Ha!  Mary,  good-by ! ” 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 


151 


All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 
The  picket’s  off  duty  forever. 

Ethelin  Eliot  Beers. 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Composed  by  Burns,  in  September,  1789,  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  day  on  which  he  heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love, 
Mary  Campbell. 

HOU  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 
That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O Mary  ! dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’ st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I forget — 

Can  I forget  the  hallowed  grove, 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 

Eternity' will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah  ! little  thought  we ’t  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O’erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene; 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray — 

Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary ! dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hears’t  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

^ Robert  Burns. 

THE  GAIN  OF  ADVERSITY. 

“ Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity .” 

LILY  said  to  a threatening  Cloud, 

That  in  sternest  garb  array’d  him, 

“ You  have  taken  my  lord,  the  Sun,  away, 
And  I know  not  where  you  have  laid 
him.” 

It  folded  its  leaves,  and  trembled  sore 
As  the  hours  of  darkness  press’d  it, 

But  at  morn,  like  a bride,  in  beauty  shone, 

For  with  pearls  the  dews  had  dress’d  it. 

Then  it  felt  ashamed  of  its  fretful  thought. 

And  fain  in  the  dust  would  hide  it, 

For  the  night  of  weeping  had  jewels  brought, 
Which  the  pride  of  day  denied  it. 

Lydia  Hunter  Sigourney. 


152 


TO  A SKY-LARK. 


TO  A SKY-LARK. 

'AIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 


Higher  still,  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 

Like  a cloud  of  fire,* 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singest. 


In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  setting  sun, 

O’er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


The  pale  purple  even 

* Melts  around  thy  flight ; 

Like  a star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  day  light 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud ; 

As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over- 
flowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 

From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a rain  of  melody. 

Like  a poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a high-born  maiden 
In  a palace  tower, 

Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

Like  a glow-worm  golden 
In  a dell  of  dew 

Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view. 

Like  a rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves, 

By  warm  winds  deflowered. 


Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 

Rain-awakened  flowers — 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass, 

I 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ; 

I have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 

Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 
Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 

What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ? what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be ; 

Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 

Thou  lovest;  but  ne’er  knew  love’s  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 

Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 

Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 

If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a tear, 

I know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound, 

Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground. 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  would  listen  then,  as  I am  listening  now. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley, 


MIL  TO  THEE.  BLITHE  SPIRIT.” 


154 


THE  RIDE  FROM  GHENT  TO  A IX. 


THE  RIDE  FROM 


GHENT  TO  AIX. 


SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 
1 galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped 
all  three; 

“Good  speed!”  cried  the  watch,  as  the 
gate-bolts  undrew ; 

“ Speed  ! ” echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through. 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


Not  a word  to  each  other ; we  kept  tne  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  for  stride,  never  changing  oui 
place ; 

I turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 

Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique 
right, 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit-* 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland,  a whit. 


A STREET  IN  GHENT. 


I 


^was  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 

At  Duffeld,  ’twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime, 


So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  “ Yet  there  is  time!** 

At  Aorschot,  up  leaped  of  a sudden  the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  on& 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I saw  my  stout  galloper,  Roland,  at  last. 


EXTRACT  FROM  ORATION  ON  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 


55 


With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 
back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  : 
And  one  eye’s  black  intelligence — ever  that  glance 
O’er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  “Stay 
spur ! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault’s  not  in  her, 
We’ll  remember  at  Aix  ” — for  one  heard  the  quick 
wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering 
knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a pitiless  laugh, 
vNeath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble  like 
chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  “ Gallop,”  gasped  Joris,  “ for  Aix  is  in  sight ! ” 


“How  they’ll  greet  us!” — and  all  in  a moment  his 
roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  heff 
fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets’  rim. 

Then  I cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without 
peer ; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad 
or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I remember  is  friends  flocking  around 
As  I sate  with  his  head  ’twixt  my  knees  on  the 
ground, 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I poured  down  his  throat  our  last-  measure  of 
wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 
from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


EXTRACT  FROM  ORATION  ON  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

N the  morning  of  Saturday,  July  2d,  the  President  was  a contented 
and  happy  man — not  in  an  ordinary  degree,  but  joyfully,  almost 
boyishly  happy.  On  his  way  to  the  railroad  station,  to  which  he 
drove  slowly,  in  conscious  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  morning, 
with  an  unwonted  sense  of  leisure  and  keen  anticipation  of  pleasure, 
his  talk  was  all  in  the  grateful  and  gratulatory  vein.  He  felt  that 
after  four  months  of  trial  his  administration  was  strong  in  its  grasp 
of  affairs,  strong  in  popular  favor,  and  destined  to  grow  stronger  ; 
that  grave  difficulties  confronting  him  at  his  inauguration  had  been 
safely  passed ; that  trouble  lay  behind  him  and  not  before  him  ; 
that  he  was  soon  to  meet  the  wife  whom  he  loved,  now  recovering  from  an  illness  which 
had  but  lately  disquieted  and  at  times  almost  unnerved  him ; that  he  was  going  to 
his  Alma  Mater  to  renew  the  most  cheerful  associations  of  his  young  manhood  and 
to  exchange  greetings  with  those  whose  deepening  interest  had  followed  every  step 
of  his  upward  progress  from  the  day  he  entered  upon  his  college  course  until  he  had 
attained  the  loftiest  elevation  in  the  gift  of  his  countrymen. 

Surely  if  happiness  can  ever  come  from  the  honors  or  triumphs  of  this  world,  on 
that  quiet  July  morning  James  A.  Garfield  may  well  have  been  a happy  man.  No 
foreboding  of  evil  haunted  him;  no  slightest  premonition  of  danger  clouded  his  sky. 
His  terrible  fate  was  upon  him  in  an  instant.  One  moment  he  stood  erect,  strong, 


156 


EXTRACT  FROM  ORATION  ON  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 


confident  in  the  years  stretching  peacefully  out  before  him ; the  next  he  lay  wounded, 
bleeding,  helpless,  doomed  to  weary  weeks  of  torture,  to  silence  and  the  grave. 

Great  in  life,  he  was  surpassingly  great  in  death.  For  no  cause,  in  the  very  frenzy 
of  wantonness  and  wickedness,  by  the  red  hand  of  murder,  he  was  thrust  from  the 
full  tide  of  this  world’s  interest — from  its  hopes,  its  aspirations,  its  victories,  into  the 
visible  presence  of  death,  and  he  did  not  quail.  Not  alone  for  the  one  short  moment 
in  which,  stunned  and  dazed,  he  could  give  up  life  hardly  aware  of  its  relinquish- 
ment, but  through  days  of  deadly  languor,  through  weeks  of  agony  that  was  not 
less  agony  because  silently  borne,  with  clear  sight  and  calm  courage  he  looked  into 
his  open  grave.  What  blight  and  ruin  met  his  anguished  eyes  whose  lips  may  tell — 
what  brilliant,  broken  plans,  what  baffled,  high  ambitions,  what  sundering  of  strong, 
warm,  manhood’s  friendships,  what  bitter  rending  of  sweet  household  ties  ! Behind 
him  a proud,  expectant  nation ; a great  host  of  sustaining  friends ; a cherished  and 
happy  mother,  wearing  the  full,  rich  honors  of  her  early  toil  and  tears ; the  wife  of 
his  youth,  whose  whole  life  lay  in  his ; the  little  boys,  not  yet  emerged  from  child- 
hood’s day  of  frolic;  the  fair  young  daughter;  the  sturdy  sons  just  springing. into 
closest  companionship,  claiming  every  day  and  every  day  rewarding  a father’s  love 
and  care ; and  in  his  heart  the  eager,  rejoicing  power  to  meet  all  demands.  Before 
him  desolation  and  great  darkness — and  his  soul  was  not  shaken.  His  countrymen 
were  thrilled  with  instant,  profound  and  universal  sympathy.  Masterful  in  his  mortal 
weakness,  he  became  the  centre  of  a nation’s  love  enshrined  in  the  prayers  of  a world. 
But  all  the  love  and  all  the  sympathy  could  not  share  with  him  his  suffering.  He 
trod  the  winepress  alone.  With  unfaltering  front  he  faced  death.  With  unfailing 
tenderness  he  took  leave  of  life.  Above  the  demoniac  hiss  of  the  assassin’s  bullet 
he  heard  the  voice  of  God.  With  simple  resignation  he  bowed  to  the  divine  decree. 

As  the  end  drew  near  his  early  craving  for  the  sea  returned.  The  stately  mansion 
of  power  had  been  to  him  the  wearisome  hospital  of  pain,  and  he  begged  to  be  taken 
from  its  prison  walls,  from  its  oppressive,  stifling  air,  from  its  homelessness  and  its 
hopelessness.  Gently,  silently,  the  love  of  a great  people  bore  the  pale  sufferer  to 
the  longed-for  healing  of  the  sea  to  live  or  to  die,  as  God  should  will,  within  sight 
of  its  heaving  billows,  within  sound  of  its  manifold  voices.  With  wan,  fevered  face 
tenderly  lifted  to  the  cooling  breeze  he  looked  out  wistfully  upon  the  ocean’s  chang- 
ing wonders;  on  its  far  sails,  whitening  in  the  morning  light;  on  its  restless  waves, 
rolling  shoreward  to  break  and  die  beneath  the  noonday  sun  ; on  the  red  clouds  of 
evening,  arching  low  to  the  horizon;  on  the  serene  and  shining  pathway  of  the  stars. 
Let  us  think  that  his  dying  eyes  read  a mystic  meaning  which  only  the  rapt  and 
parting  soul  may  know.  Let  us  believe  that  in  the  silence  of  the  receding  world  he 
heard  the  great  waves  breaking  on  a farther  shore,  and  felt  already  upon  his  wasted 
brow  the  breath  of  the  eternal  morning.  James  G.  Blaine. 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 


5 7 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 


SOLDIER  of 
the  Legion 
lay  dying 
in  Algiers, 
There  was 
lack  of 
w o m a n’s 
nursing, 
there  was 
dearth  of 
woman’s 
tears ; 

But  a com- 
rade stood 
be  side 
him,  while 
his  life- 
blood 

ebbed  away, 

And  bent,  with  pitying  glances, 
to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he 
took  that  comrade’s  hand, 

And  he  said,  “ I never  more  shall 
see  my  own,  my  native  land ; 
Take  a message,  and  a token,  to 
some  distant  friends  of  mine, 
For  I was  born  at  Bingen — at 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

“ Tell  my  brothers  and  com- 
panions, when  they  meet  and 
crowd  around 

To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the 
pleasant  vineyard  ground, 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day 
was  done, 

Full  many  a corse  lay  ghastly  pale,  beneath  the  set- 
ting sun ; 

And  midst  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old 
in  wars, 

The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of 
many  scars  : 

But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life’s 
morn  decline ; 

And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine  ! 


“Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her 
old  age, 

And  I was  aye  a truant  bird,  that  though  this  home  a 
cage : 

For  my  father  was  a soldier,  and  even  as  a child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles 
fierce  and  wild ; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty 
hoard, 

I let  them  take  whate’er  they  would  but  kept  my 
father’s  sword, 

And  with  boyish  love  I hung  it  where  the  bright  light 
used  to  shine,  ' 

On  the  cottage-wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine ! 


“ Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 
drooping  head, 

When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again,  with 
glad  and  gallant  tread ; 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a calm  and  stead- 
fast eye, 

For  her  brother  was  a soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to 
die; 

And  if  a comrade  seek  her  love,  I ask  her  in  my 
name 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame ; 

And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father’s 
sword  and  mine), 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine ! 

“There’s  another,  not  a sister;  in  the  happy  days 
gone  by, 

You’d  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled 
in  her  eye; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry — too  fond  for  idle  scorn- 
ing— 

Oh ! friend,  I fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes 
heaviest  mourning ! 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere  the  moon  be 
risen, 

My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be  out  of  prison), 

I dreamed  I stood  with  her , and  saw  the  yellow  sun- 
light shine 

On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine ! 

“ I saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I heard,  or 
seemed  to  hear. 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet 
and  clear; 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting 
hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening 
calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 
with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well  remem- 
bered walk, 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine: 

But  we’ll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — loved  Bingen  on 
the  Rhine ! ” 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser, — his  grasp  was 
childish,  weak,  trembling, 

His  eyes  put  on  a dying  look — he  sighed  and  ceased 
to  speak  : 

His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had 
fled! 

The  soldier  of  the  Legion,  in  a foreign  land — was 
dead ! 

And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she 
looked  down 

On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses 
strown ; 

Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light 
seemed  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine ! 

Caroline  E.  Norton 


158 


HER  V E RIEL. 


HERVE 

^ the  sea 
and  at  the 
Hogue, 
sixteen 
hundred 
ninety- 
two, 

Did  the 
Eng  1 i s h 
fight  the 
French- 
woe  t<5 
France ! 
And,  the 
thirty- 
first  of 
May,hel- 
ter-s  k e 1- 
ter  thro’ 
the  blue, 

Like  a crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a shoal  of 
sharks  pursue, 

Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the 
Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

’Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in 
full  chase, 

First  and  foremost  of  the  drove  in  his  great  ship, 
Damfreville ; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small. 

Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 

And  they  signalled  to  the  place, 

“ Help  the  winners  of  a race  ! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick — or, 
quicker  still, 

Here’s  the  English  can  and  will ! ” 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leaped 
on  board. 

“ Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these 
to  pass  ? ” laughed  they  ; 

“ Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage 
scarred  and  scored, 

Shall  the  ‘ Formidable  ’ here,  with  her  twelve  and 
eighty  guns, 

Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  nar- 
row way, 

Trust  to  enter  where  ’tis  ticklish  for  a craft  of  twenty 
tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 

Now  ’tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring  ? Rather  say, 

While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 

Not  a ship  will  leave  the  bay ! ” 

Then  was  called  a council  straight ; 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate : 

“ Here’s  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have 
them  take  in  tow 

A.11  that’s  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and 
bow, 


RIEL. 

For  a prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ? 

Better  run  the  ships  aground  ! ” 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 

“ Not  a minute  more  to  wait ! 

Let  the  captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the 
beach  ! 

France  must  undergo  her  fate.” 

“ Give  the  word  ! ” But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all 
these, 

A captain?  A lieutenant?  A mate — first,  second,  third? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 

But  a simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville 
for  the  fleet — 

A poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

And  “ What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here  ? ” 
cries  Herve  Riel ; 

“Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins  ? Are  you  cowards, 
fools,  or  rogues  ? 

Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the 
soundings,  tell 

On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
’Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve,  where  the  river 
disembogues  ? 

Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?  Is  it  love  the 
lying’s  for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 

Have  I piloted  your  bay, 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet,  and  ruin  France?  That  were  worse 
than  fifty  Hogues ! 

Sirs,  they  know  I speak  the  truth  1 Sirs,  believe 
me,  there’s  a way  ! 

Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer. 

Get  this  ‘ Formidable  ’ clear, 

Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I lead  them  most  and  least  by  a passage  I know 
well, 

Right  to  Solidor,  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 

And  if  one  ship  misbehave — 

Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground — 

Why,  I’ve  nothing  but  my  life;  here’s  my  head!” 
cries  Herve  Riel. 

Not  a minute  more  to  wait. 

“ Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron!  ” 
cried  its  chief. 

Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God’s  grace. 

See  the  noble  fellow’s  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a bound, 

Clears  the  entry  like  a hound, 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wid» 
sea’s  profound  ! 


HERVE  RIEL . 


159 


See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a flock. 

Hot  a ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a keel  that  grates  the 
ground. 

Not  a spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 


The  peril,  see,  is  past, 

All  are  harbored  to  the  last; 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  halloos  “ Anchor!  ” — sure  aa 
fate, 

Up  the  English  come,  too  late. 


i6o 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 


So  the  storm  sunsides  to  calm  ; 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o’erlooking  Greve  : 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 

“Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 

Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 
As  they  cannonade  away  ! 

’Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the 
Ranee  ! ” 

How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  captain’s  coun- 
tenance ! 

Outburst  all  with  one  accord, 

“ This  is  Paradise  for  Hell ! 

Let  France,  let  France’s  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing ! ” 

What  a shout,  and  all  one  word, 

“ Herve  Riel,” 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes. 

Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  “ My  friend, 

I must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I find  the  speaking  hard : 

Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips; 

You  have  saved  the  king  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 

Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse ! 

Demand  whate’er  you  will, 

France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart’s  content,  and  have ! or  my  name’s  not 
Damfreville.” 

Then  a beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 

As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue : 

“ Since  I needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty’s  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it 
but  a run  ? — 

Since  ’tis  ask  and  have  I may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore, — 

Come  ! A good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I call  the  Belle 
Aurore ! ” 

That  he  asked,  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 


In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife  the 
Belle  Aurore. 

Robert  Browning. 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 


little  feet;  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears; 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load : 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn, 

Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary  thinking  of  your  road. 


0,  little  hands,  that  weak  or  strong, 

Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask; 

1,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O,  little  hearts;  that  throb  and  beat 
With  much  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires ; 

Mine,  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned, 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 


Name  and  deed  alil^e  are  lost; 

Not  a pillar  nor  a post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 

Not  a head  in  white  and  black 
On  a single  fishing-smack 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to 
wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  Eng- 
land bore  the  bell. 

Go  to  Paris ; rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ; 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve 
Riel. 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 

Herv6  Riel,  accept  my  verse  ! 


O,  little  souls ; a's  pure  and  white, 

As  crystaline,  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  Heaven,  their  source  divine; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 

How  red  my  setting  sun  appears ; 

How  lurid  looks  this  sun  of  mine. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow, 


THE  BABY. 

N parents’  knees,  a naked,  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat’st  when  all  around  thee 
smiled : 

So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 

Thou  then  mayst  smile  while  all  around  thee  weep. 


From  the  Chinese. 


THE  RAVEN. 


6l 


THE  RAVEN. 

NCE  upon  a midnight 
dreary,  while  I pon- 
dered, weak  and 
weary, 

Over  many  a quaint 
and  curious  volume 
of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I nodded, 
nearly  napping,  sud- 
denly there  came  a 
tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently 
rapping,  rapping  at 

my  chamber-door. 

«»Tis  some  visitor,”  I mutter’d,  “tapping  at  my 
chamber-door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more.” 

Ah,  distinctly  I remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  De- 
cember, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I wished  the  morrow ; vainly  I had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 
curtain, 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 
* before ; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I stood 
repeating, 

“ ’Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  cham- 
ber-door— 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber- 
door  ; 

That  it  is,  and  nothing  more.” 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  : hesitating  then  no 
longer, 

« Sir,”  said  I,  “ or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 
implore  ; 

But  the  fact  is,  I was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber-door, 

That  I scarce  was  sure  I heard  you  ” — here  I opened 
wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I stood  there, 
wondering,  fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 
dream  before  ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 
no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 
word  “ Lenore  ! ” 

This  / whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 
word,  “ Lenore  ! ” 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 


Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning, 

Soon  again  I heard  a tapping,  something  louder  than 
before. 

“ Surely,”  said  I,  “ surely  that  is  something  at  my 
window-lattice  ; 

Let  me  see  then  what  thereat  is  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore— 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a moment,  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore ; — 

’Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more.” 

Open  here  I flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a flirt 
and  flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 
yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ; not  a minute  stopped 
or  stayed  he ; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 
chamber-door — 

Perched  upon  a bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  cham- 
ber-door— 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, 

“ Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,”  I 
said,  “ art  sure  no  craven 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the 
nightly  shore, 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night’s  Plu- 
tonian shore  ? ” 

Quoth  the  raven,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

Much  I marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 
so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy 
bore  ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  cham- 
ber-door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  cham- 
ber-door 

With  such  name  as  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke 
only 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 
outpour. 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered  ; not  a feather  then 
he  fluttered — 

Till  I scarcely  more  than  muttered,  “ Other  friends 
have  flown  before, 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have 
flown  before. 

Then  the  bird  said,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 
spoken, 

“ Doubtless,”  said  I,  “ what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 
and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 

1 disaster 


ii 


162 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON. 


Follow’d  fast  and  follow’d  faster,  till  his  songs  one 
burden  bore, 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore, 

Of — ‘ Never — nevermore ! ’ ” 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into 
smiling, 

Straight  I wheeled  a cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door, 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I betook  myself  to 
linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 
yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  omi- 
nous bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

This  I sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex- 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burn’d  into  my 
bosom’s  core  ; 

This  and  more  I sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining 

On  the  cushion’s  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light 
gloated  o’er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light 
gloating  o’er 

She  shall  press — ah  ! nevermore  ! 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 
an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the 
tufted  floor. 

“ Wretch,”  I cried,  “ thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by 
these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 
Lenore  ! 

Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 
lost  Lenore  ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

“ Prophet ! ” said  I,  “ thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted— 

On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I im- 
plore— 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me, 
I implore  ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

“Prophet!”  said  I,  “thing  of  evil! — prophet  still, 
if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 
both  adore, 

Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  dis- 
tant Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 
Lenore  ; 

Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 


“ Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend ! ” 
I shrieked,  upstarting — 

“ Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night’s  Pluto- 
nian shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above 
my  door  ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door  ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven,  “ Nevermore  ! ” 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 
sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber- 
door  ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a demon’s  that  is 
dreaming, 

And  the  lamp-light  o’er  him  streaming  throws  his 
shadow  on  the  floor  ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON. 


mm 


HEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 
Hovers  within  my  gates, 

And  my  divine  Althea  brings 
To  whisper  at  my  grates-; 

When  I lie  tangled  in  her  hair 
And  fettered  with  her  eye, 

The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 


When  flowing  cups  pass  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like  confined, 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty 
And  glories  of  my  King ; 

When  I shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be, 

The  enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood. 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a cage ; 

Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 
That  for  an  hermitage  : 

If  I have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Colonel  Richard  Lovelace. 


EXCELSIOR. 


HE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A youth,  who  bore,  mid  snow  and  iee, 
A banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 


His  brow  was  sad ; his  eye,  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 
And  like  a silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright : 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone ; 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a groan, 
Excelsior ! 


“ Try  not  the  pass ! ” the  old  man  said ; 
“ Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  ! ” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 


“ O ! stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “ and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! ” 


A tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye ; 

But  still  he  answered,  with  a sigh, 

Excelsior ! 

“ Beware  the  pine-tree’s  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche ! ” 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  good-night ; — 

A voice  replied  far  up  the  height, 

Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A voice  cried,  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller — by  the  faithful  hound, 

Half  buried  in  the  snow,  was  found. 

Still  grasping,  in  his  hand  of  ice, 

That  banner  with  the  strange  device. 

Excelsior ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 

Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay; 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A voice  fell,  like  a falling  star — 

Excelsior ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow* 


THERE  IS  AN  HOUR 

HERE  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 

To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 

There  is  a joy  for  souls  distress’d, 

A balm  for  every  wounded  breast — 

’Tis  found  above,  in  heaven. 

There  is  a soft,  a downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  ; 

A couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 

Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 

And  find  repose  in  heaven. 

There  is  a home  for  weary  souls, 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven  ; 


OF  PEACEFUL  REST. 

When  toss’d  on  life’s  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear — ’tis  heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

The  heart  no  longer  riven  ; 

And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 

The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene  in  heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers,  immortal,  bloom. 

And  joys  supreme  are  given  : 

There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom — 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 
Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 

William  B.  Tappan. 


HE  TRIP  U TI  ON. 


164 


RETRIBUTION. 

FROM  INAUGURAL  MESSAGE,  MARCH  4,  1 865. 

ALMIGHTY  has  His  own  purposes.  “Woe 
unto  the  world  because  of  offences ! for  it  must 
needs  be  that  offences  come;  but  woe  to  that 
man  by  whom  the  offence  cometh.”  If  we  shall 
suppose  that  American  slavery  is  one  of  those 
offences  which,  in  the  providence  of  God,  must 
needs  come,  but  which,  having  continued  through 
His  appointed  time,  He  now  wills  to  remove, 
and  that  He  gives  to  both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war, 
as  the  woe  due  to  those  by  whom  the  offence  came,  shall  we 
discern  therein  any  departure  from  those  divine  attributes 
which  the  believers  in  a living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him  ! 
Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray,  that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may 
speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by 
the  bondman’s  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and 
until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with 
the  sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  “ The  judg 
ments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  altogether.” 

With  malice  toward  none  ; with  charity  for  all ; with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God 
gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in ; to  bind  up 
the  nation’s  wounds ; to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and  for  his 
widow,  and  his  orphan — to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a just  and  a last- 
ing peace  among  ourselves,  and  with  all  nations.  Abraham  Lincoln. 


FOR  A’  THAT  AND  A’  THAT. 


S there  for  honest  poverty 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toil’s  obscure,  and  a’  that; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp — 

The  man’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that. 


What  though  on  hamely  fnre  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a’  that  ? 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 
A man’s  a man  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that ; 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 


Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that — 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that ; 


For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a’  that ; 

The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A prince  can  mak  a belted  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that ; 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might — - 
Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that ; 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that, 

The  pith  o’  sense,  and  pride  o’  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that — 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

It’s  coming  yet,  for  a’  that — 

When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that ! 

Robert  Burns.  * 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  II AMELIN. 


1 6 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN 


AMELIN  Town’s  in 
Brunswick. 

By  famous  Han- 
over City ; 

The  river  Weser, 
deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall 
on  the  southern 
side ; 

A pleasanter  spot 
you  never  spied, 
But  when  begins  my 
ditty, 

Almost  five  hun- 
dred years  ago, 
To  see  the  towns- 
folk suffer  so 
From  vermin  was  a 
pity. 


Rats ! / 

They  fought  the 
dogs,  and  killed 
the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies 
in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses 
out  of  the  vats, 
And  licked  the 
soup  from  the 
cook’s  own  la- 
dles. 

Split  open  the  kegs 
of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside 
men’s  Sunday 
hats, 

And  even  spoiled  the 
women’s  chats, 
By  drowning  their 
speaking 

With  shrieking  and 
squeaking 

In  fifty  different 
sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in 
a body 

To  the  Town  Hall 
came  flocking : 

“ ’Tis  clear,”  cried 
they,  “ our  Mayor’s  a noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can’t  or  won’t  determine 
What’s  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! ” 

At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a mighty  consternation. 


jl 

1 II 

l!; 

'■Wi 

ill 

(1 

An  hour  they  sate  in  council — 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence  : 

* For  a guilder  I’d  my  ermine  gown  sell; 
I wish  I were  a mile  hence ! 


It’s  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one’s  brain — 

I’m  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again. 

I’ve  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

0 for  a trap,  a trap,  a trap  ! ” 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a gentle  tap  ? 

“ Bless  us,”  cried  the  Mayor,  “ what’s  t*hat  ? ” 

“ Come  in  ! ”■ — the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger; 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure  ; 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table  ; 

And,  “ Please  your  honor,”  said  he,  “ I’m  able, 
By  means  of  a secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

Yet,”  said  he,  “ poor  piper  as  I am, 

In  Tartary  I freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats ; 

1 eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats  ; 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders — 

If  I can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a thousand  guilders  ? ” 

“ One  ? fifty  thousand  ! ” was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a little  smile, 

As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 
In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 

Then,  like  a musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled. 
Like  a candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 

And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered. 

You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a grumbling ; 

And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a mighty  rumbling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 

Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers ; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 

Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 

Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 

From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 

And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 

Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 

Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 
Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 

Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 

Which  was : “At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  p'pe 
I heard  a sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

Into  a cider-press’s  gripe — 

And  a moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 

And  a leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 

And  a drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks. 

And  a breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks, 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HA  ME  LIE 


I OP 


Is  breathed)  called  out,  0 rats,  rejoice ! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 

.So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 

And  just  as  a bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

Already  staved,  like  a great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me  !— 

1 found  the  Weser  rolling  o’er  me.” 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple; 

“ Go,”  cried  the  Mayor,  “ and  get  long  poles ! 

Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a trace 
Of  the  rats  ! ” — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  piper  perked  in  the  market  place, 

With  a “ First  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders  ! ” 

A thousand  guilders  ! the  Mayor  looked  blue ; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council-dinners  made  rare  havoc 
With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 
Their  cellar’s  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a wandering  fellow 
With  a gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow  ! 

“ Beside,”  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a knowing  wink, 

“ Our  business  was  done  at  the  river’s  brink  ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink. 

And  what’s  dead  can’t  come  to  life,  I think. 

So,  friend,  we’re  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  to  drink, 

And  a matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke  ; 

But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty ; 

A thousand  guilders  ! Come,  take  fifty  ! * 

The  piper’s  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

“ No  trifling  ! I can’t  wait ! beside, 

I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  head  cook’s  pottage,  all  he’s  rich  in. 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph’s  kitchen, 

Of  a nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor — 

With  him  I proved  no  bargain-driver  ; 

With  you,  don’t  think  I’ll  bate  a stiver! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion.” 

“ How?  ” cried  the  Mayor,  “ d’  ye  think  I’ll  brook 
Being  worse  treated  than  a cook  ? 

Jnsulted  by  a lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ? Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst ! ” 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth,  straight  cane ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet, 


Soft  notes  as  yet  musician’s  cunning 
Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 

There  was  a rustling  that  seemed  like  a bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering ; 
And,  like  fowls  in  a farm -yard  when  barley  is  scatter 

ing, 

Out  came  the  children  running : 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks 'and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 

Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 

The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 
Unable  to  move  a step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  piper’s  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council’s  bosoms  beat 
As  the  piper  turned  from  the  High  street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters ! 
However,  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed  ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

“ He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top ! 

He’s  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop ! ” 

When  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain’s  side,  * 

A wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 

And  the  piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed; 
And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I say  all  ? No ! One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way ; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, 

“ It’s  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left, 

I can’t  forget  that  I’m  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  piper  also  promised  me ; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new ; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here. 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stints, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles’  wings; 

And  just  as  I became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  ! ” 

Robert  Browning 


‘And  the  muttering  grew  to  a grumbling ; 

And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a mighty  rumbling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling.” 


1 68 


CRIME  REVEALED  BY  CONSCIENCE. 


CRIME  REVEALED  BY  CONSCIENCE. 

HE  deed*  was  executed  with  a degree  of  self-possession  and  steadiness 
equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was  planned.  The  circumstances, 
now  clearly  in  evidence,  spread  out  the  whole  scene  before  us.  Deep 
sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim,  and  on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A 
healthful  old  man,  to  whom  sleep  was  sweet,  the  first  sound  slumbers  of  the  night 
held  him  in  their  soft  but  strong  embrace.  The  assassin  enters,  through  the  window 
already  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartment.  With  noiseless  foot  he  paces  the 
lonely  hall,  half  lighted  by  the  moon  ; he  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  and 
reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber.  Of  this,  he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued 
pressure,  till  it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise ; and  he  enters,  and  beholds  his 
victim  before  him.  The  room  was  uncommonly  open  to  the  admission  of  light. 
The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  turned  from  the  murderer,  and  the  beams  of  the 
moon,  resting  on  the  gray  locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to  strike. 
The  fatal  blow  is  given  ! and  the  victim  passes,  without  a struggle  or  a motion,  from 
the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death ! It  is  the  assassin’s  purpose  to  make 
sure  work ; and  he  yet  plies  the  dagger,  though  it  was  obvious  that  life  had  been 
destroyed  by  the  blow  of  the  bludgeon.  He  even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may 
not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the  heart,  and  replaces  it  again  over  the  wounds  of  the  poniard  1 
To  finish  the  picture,  he  explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse  ! He  feels  for  it,  and  ascer- 
tains that  it  beats  no  longer  ! It  is  accomplished.  The  deed  is  done.  He  retreats, 
retraces  his  steps  to  the  window,  passes  out  through  it  as  he  came  in,  and  escapes. 
He  has  done  the  murder — no  eye  has  seen  him,  no  ear  has  heard  him.  The  secret 
is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe ! 

Ah,  gentlemen  ! that  was  a dreadful  mistake  ! Such  a secret  can  be  safe  nowhere. 
The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither  nook  nor  corner  where  the  guilty  can  bestow 
it,  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not  to  speak  of  that  eye  which  glances  through  all  disguises, 
and  beholds  every  thing  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such  secrets  of  guilt  are  never 
safe  from  detection,  even  by  men.  True  it  is,  generally  speaking,  that  “ murder  will 
out.”  True  it  is  that  Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern  things,  that 
those  W'ho  break  the  great  law  of  heaven,  by  shedding  man’s  blood,  seldom  succeed  in 
avoiding  discovery.  Especially  in  a case  exciting  so  much  attention  as  this,  dis- 
covery must  come,  and  will  come,  sooner  or  later.  A thousand  eyes  turn  at  once 
to  explore  every  man,  every  thing,  every  circumstance,  connected  with  the  time  and 
♦place ; a thousand  ears  catch  every  whisper ; a thousand  excited  minds  intensely 
dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all  their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest  circum- 
stance into  a blaze  of  discovery.  Meantime,  the  guilty  soul  cannot  keep  its  own 
secret.  It  is  false  to  itself ; or,  rather,  it  feels  an  irresistible  impulse  of  conscience  to 
be  true  to  itself.  It  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows  not  what  to  do 
with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not  made  for  the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant 


The  murder  of  Joseph  White,  Esq.,  of  Salem,  Mass.,  April  6,  1830 


A THING  OF  BEAUTY  IS  A JOY  FOREVER. 


169 


It  finds  itself  preyed  on  by  a torment,  which  it  dares  not  acknowledge  to  God  nor 
man.  A vulture  is  devouring  it,  and  it  can  ask  no  sympathy  or  assistance  either 
from  heaven  or  earth.  The  secret  which  the  murderer  possesses  soon  comes  to 
possess  him  ; and,  like  the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes  him,  and  leads 
him  withersoever  it  will.  He  feels  it  beating  at  his  heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and 
demanding  disclosure.  He  thinks  the  whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in  his 
eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts.  It  has  be- 
come his  master.  It  betrays  his  discretion,  it  breaks  down  his  courage,  it  conquers 
his  prudence.  When  suspicions  from  without  begin  to  embarrass  him,  and  the  net 
of  circumstance  to  entangle  him,  the  fatal  secret  struggles  with  still  greater  violence 
to  burst  forth.  It  must  be  confessed,  it  will  be  confessed ; there  is  no  refuge  from 
confession  but  suicide — and  suicide  is  confession.  Daniel  Webster. 


A THING  OF  BEAUTY  IS  A JOY  FOR- 
EVER. 


FROM  “ ENDYMION,”  BOOK  I. 


THING  of  beauty  is  a joy 
forever : 

Its  loveliness  increases  ; it  will 
never 

Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still 
will  keep 

A bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a 
sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and 
health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow, 
are  we  wreathing 

A flowery  band  to  bind  us  to 
the  earth, 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the 
inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy 
days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o’er- 
darkened  ways 

Made  for  our  searching  : yes,  in 
spite  of  all. 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves 
away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.  Such 
the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting 
a shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep  ; and  such  are 
daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live 
in ; and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a cooling 


covert  make 

*Gainst  the  hot  season ; the  mid-forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms : 
And  such,  too,  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read ; 


An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven’s  brink. 

John  Keats. 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 


REMEMBER,  I remember 
The  house  where  I was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 

He  never  came  a wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a day ; 

But  now  I often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  1 


I remember,  I remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets  and  the  lily-cups— 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I remember,  I remember 
Where  I was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 
That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I remember,  I remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

I used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky. 

It  was  a childish  ignorance, 

But  now  ’tis  little  joy 
To  know  I’m  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I was  a boy. 

Thomas  Hood. 


I/O 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

Thomas  Hood,  born  in  London,  in  1798,  was  the  son  of  a respectable  publisher,  of  the  firm  of  Vernor,  Hood  & Sharpe.  He 
was  brought  up  an  engraver  he  became  a writer  of  “ Whims  and  Oddities,"— and  he  grew  into[a  poet  of  great  and  original  power. 
The  slight  partition  which  divides  humor  and  pathos  was  remarkably  exemplified  in  Hood.  Misfortune  and  feeble  health  made 
him  doubly  sensitive  to  the  ills  of  his  fellow-creatures.  The  sorrows  which  he  has  delineated  are  not  unreal  things.  He  died  in 
1845,  his  great  merits  having  been  previously  recognized  by  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  bestowed  on  him  a pension,  to  be  continued  to 
his  wife.  That  wife  soon  followed  him  to  the  grave. 


WAS  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 

And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 
Came  bounding  out  of  school : 

There  were  some  that  ran,  and  some  that 
leapt 

Like  troutlets  in  a pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouch’d  by  sin  ; 

To  a level  mead  they  came,  and  there 
They  drave  the  wickets  in : 

Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 
Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 


Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran — 

Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can: 

But  the  usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A melancholy  man  ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  heaven’s  blessed  breeze ; 

For  a burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 

And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease ; 

So  he  lean’d  his  head  on  his  hands  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees  ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turn’d  it  o’er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside ; 


For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 
In  the  golden  eventide  : 

Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome; 

With  a fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strain’d  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fix’d  the  brazen  hasp  : 

“ O God,  could  I so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a clasp  ! ” 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took  ; 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a shady  nook: 
And  lo  ! he  saw  a little 
boy 

That  pored  upon  a 
book  1 

“ My  gentle  lad,  what 
is’t  you  read — 
Romance  or  fairy 
fable  ? 

Or  is  it  some  historic 
page 

Of  kings  and  crowns 
unstable  ? ” 

The  young  boy  gave  an 
upward  glance — 

“ It  is  the  death  of 
Abel.” 

The  usher  took  six  hasty 
strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden 
pain. 

Six  hasty  strides  beyond 
the  place, 

Then  slowly  back 
again : 

And  down  he  sat  beside 
the  lad, 

And  talk’d  with  him  of  Cain  ; 

And  long  since  then  of  bloody  men. 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves — 

Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves — 

Of  horrid  stabs  in  groves  forlorn,  \ 

And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injur’d  men,  i 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod — 

Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 


171 


He  told  how  murderers  walk’d  the  earth 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain — 

With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 
And  flames  about  their  brain  : 

For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 
Its  everlasting  stain ! 

“And  well,”  quoth  he,  “ I 
know  for  truth 
Their  pangs  must  be  ex- 
treme— 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable 
woe — 

Who  spill  life’s  sacred 
stream  ! 

For  why  ? Methought  last 
night  I wrought 
A murder  in  a dream  ! 

“ One  that  had  never  done 
me  wrong, 

A feeble  man  and  old ; 

I led  him  to  a lonely  field — 

The  moon  shone  clear 
and  cold  : 

Now  here,  said  I,  this  man 
shall  die, 

And  I will  have  his 
gold ! 

“ Two  sudden  blows  with 
a ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a heavy 
stone, 

One  hurried  gash  with  a 
hasty  knife, 

And  then  the  deed  was 
done  : 

There  was  nothing  lying 
at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and 
bone ! 

**  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh 
and  bone 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 

And  yet  I fear’d  him  all 
the  more 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 

There  was  a manhood  in 
his  look 

That  murder  could  not 
kill! 

“And  lo ! the  universal  air 
Seem’d  lit  with  ghastly 
flame — 

Ten  thousand  thousand 
dreadful  eyes 

Were  looking  down  in  blame  : 

I took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand 
And  call’d  upon  his  name. 


But  when  I touch’d  the  lifeless  clay 
The  blood  gush’d  out  amain, 

For  every  clot  a burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 

My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  3 
knew, 

Was  at  the  devil’s  price  : 

A dozen  times  I groan’d — the 
dead 

Had  never  groan’d  but  twice  ; 

“And  now  from  forth  the  frown- 
ing  sky, 

From  the  heaven’s  topmost 
height, 

I heard  a voice — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite : 
* Thou  guilty  man  ! take  up  thy 
dead 

And  hide  it  from  my  sight ! ’ 

“ I took  the  dreary  body  up, 
And  cast  it  in  a stream — 

A sluggish  water,  black  as  ink. 
The  depth  was  so  extreme. 
My  gentle  boy,  remember  this 
Is  nothing  but  a dream  ! 

“ Down  went  the  corpse  with  a 
hollow  plunge, 

And  vanish’d  in  the  pool ; 
Anon  I cleansed  my  bloody 
hands, 

And  wash’d  my  forehead  cool. 
And  sat  among  the  urchins 
young 

That  evening  in  the  school ! 

“ Oh,  heaven,  to  think  of  their 
white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim ! 
I could  not  share  in  childish 
prayer. 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn; 
Like  a devil  of  the  pit  I seem’d 
’Mid  holy  cherubim ! 

“And  peace  went  with  then* 
one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread; 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  cham- 
berlain 

That  lighted  me  to  bed, 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains 
round 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

“All  night  I lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep  ; 

My  fever’d  eyes  I dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep ; 


•*  Oh,  God  ! it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 


172 


TRUE  POLITENESS. 


For  Sin  had  render’d  unto  her 
The  keys  of  hell  to  keep ! 

“All  night  I lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  rack’d  me  all  the  time — 

A mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  impulse  unto  crime. 

“ One  stern,  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slaves ; 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  dead  man  in  his  grave  ! 

“ Heavily  I rose  up — as  soon 
As  light  was  in  the  sky — 

And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 
With  a wild  misgiving  eye ; 

And  I saw  the  dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry  ! 

“ Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dewdrop  from  its  wing ; 

But  I never  mark’d  its  morning  flight, 

I never  heard  it  sing  : 

For  I was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

“ With  breathless  speed,  like  a soul  in  chase, 
I took  him  up  and  ran — 

There  was  no  time  to  dig  a grave 
Before  the  day  began  ; 

In  a lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I hid  the  murder’d  man  ! 

“And  all  that  day  I read  in  school, 

But  my  thought  was  other  where  ! 


As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 

In  secret  I was  there  : 

And  a mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 

And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

“ Then  down  I cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep  ; 

For  I knew  my  secret  then  was  one 
That  earth  refused  to  keep ; 

Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 
Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep  ! 

“ So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  sprite. 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones — 

Ay,  though  he’s  buried  in  a cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 

And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones ! 

“ Oh,  God,  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 
Besets  me  now  awake  ! 

Again,  again,  with  a dizzy  brain 
The  human  life  I take ; 

And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer’s  at  the  stake. 

“And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 
Will  wave  or  mould  allow  : 

The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul — 

It  stands  before  me  now  ! ” 

The  fearful  boy  look’d  up,  and  saw 
Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 
The  urchin’s  eyelids  kiss’d, 

Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 
Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 

And  Eugene  Aram  walk’d  between 
With  gyves  upon  his  wrists. 

Thomas  Hood. 


TRUE  POLITENESS. 

OW  as  to  politeness,  many  have  attempted  its  definition.  I believe  it 
is  best  to  be  known  by  description  ; definition  not  being  able  to  com- 
prise it.  I would,  however,  venture  to  call  it  benevolence  in  trifles, 
or  the  preference  of  others  to  ourselves,  in  little  daily,  hourly  occur- 
rences in  the  commerce  of  life.  A better  place,  a more  commodious 
seat,  priority  in  being  helped  at  table ; what  is  it  but  sacrificing  our- 
selves in  such  trifles  to  the  convenience  and  pleasures  of  others  ? 
And  this  constitutes  true  politeness.  It  is  a perpetual  attention  (by 
habit  it  grows  easy  and  natural  to  us)  to  the  little  wants  of  those  we 
are  with,  by  which  we  either  prevent  or  remove  them.  Bowing,  cere- 
monies, formal  compliments,  stiff  civilities  will  never  be  politeness; 
that  must  be  easy,  natural,  unstudied,  manly,  noble.  And  what  will  give  this  but  a 
mind  benevolent,  and  perpetually  attentive  to  exert  that  amiable  disposition  in  trifles 
towards  all  you  converse  and  live  with.  Benevolence  in  great  matters  takes  a higher 
name,  and  is  the  Queen  of  Virtue.  Lord  Chatham. 


I NE'ER  COULD  ANY  LUSTRE  SEE. 


73 


NE’ER  could  any  lustre  see 
In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  me ; 
I ne’er  saw  nectar  on  a lip, 

But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 
Has  the  maid  who  seeks  my  heart 
Cheeks  of  rose,  untouched  by  art  ? 

I will  own  the  color  true, 

When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 


Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure  ? 

I must  press  it,  to  be  sure  ; 

Nor  can  I be  certain  then, 

Till  it,  grateful,  press  again. 

Must  I,  with  attentive  eye, 

Watch  her  heaving  bosom  sigh? 

I will  do  so  when  I see 

That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


74 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT. 

’LOWLY  England’s  sun  was  setting  o’er  the 
hill-tops  far  away, 

Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the 
close  of  one  sad  day. 

And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a man  and 
maiden  fair — 

He  with  footsteps  slow  and  weary,  she  with  sunny 
floating  hair ; 

He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful,  she  with 
lips  all  cold  and  white, 

Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur — 

“ Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.” 

**  Sexton,”  Bessie’s  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the 
prison  old, 

With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  with  its  walls  dark, 
damp,  and  cold, 

“ I’ve  a lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night 
to  die, 

At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is 
nigh ; 

Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,”  and  her  lips  grew 
strangely  white 

As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper : — 

“ Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.” 

“ Bessie,”  calmly  spoke  the  sexton,  — every  word 
pierced  her  young  heart 

Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow,  like  a deadly  poisoned 
dart — 

“ Long,  long  years  I’ve  rung  the  Curfew  from  that 
gloomy,  shadowed  tower; 

Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twilight 
hour ; 

I have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 

Now  I’m  old  I will  not  falter — 

Curfew,  it  must  ring  to-night.” 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white 
her  thoughtful  brow, 

As  within  her  secret  bosom  Bessie  made  a solemn 
vow. 

She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read  without  a tear 
or  sigh  : 

“ At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  Basil  Underwood 
must  die.” 

And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes 
grew  large  and  bright ; 

In  an  undertone  she  murmured  : — 

“ Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.” 

With  quick  step  she  bounded  forward,  sprung  within 
the  old  church  door, 

Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly  paths  so  oft  he’d 
trod  before ; 

Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  eye  and 
cheek  aglow 

Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung 
to  and  fro 

As  she  climbed  the  dusty  ladder  on  which  fell  no  ray 
of  light, 

Up  and  up — her  white  lips  saying  : — 

“ Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.” 


She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder ; o’er  her  hang? 
the  great,  dark  bell ; 

Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway 
down  to  hell. 

Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging — ’tis  the  hour 
of  Curfew  now, 

And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her 
breath,  and  paled  her  brow. 

Shall  she  let  it  ring?  No,  never!  flash  her  eyes  with 
sudden  light. 

As  she  springs,  and  grasps  it  firmly — 

“ Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night ! ” 

Out  she  swung — far  out ; the  city  seemed  a speck  of 
light  below, 

There  ’twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended  as  the  bell 
swung  to  and  fro, 

And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and  deaf,  heard 
not  the  bell, 

Sadly  thought,  “ That  twilight  Curfew  rang  young 
Basil’s  funeral  knell.” 

Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly,  and  with  tremb- 
ling lips  so  white, 

Said  to  hush  her  heart’s  wild  throbbing  : — 

“ Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night ! ” 

It  was  o’er,  the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and  the  maiden 
stepped  once  more 

Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder  where  for  hundred 
years  before 

Human  foot  had  not  been  planted.  The  brave  deed 
that  she  had  done 

Should  be  told  long  ages  after,  as  the  rays  of  setting 
sun 

Crimson  all  the  sky  with  beauty;  aged  sires,  with 
heads  of  white, 

Tell  the  eager,  listening  children, 

“ Curfew  did  not  ring  that  night.” 

O’er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell;  Bessie  see9 
him,  and  her  brow, 

Lately  white  with  fear  and  anguish,  has  no  anxious 
traces  now. 

At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her  hands  all 
bruised  and  torn  ; 

And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading,  yet  with  sorrow 
pale  and  worn, 

Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity,  lit  his  eyes  with 
misty  light : 

“Go!  your  lover  lives,”  said  Cromwell, 

“ Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night.” 

Wide  they  flung  the  massive  portal ; led  the  prisoner 
forth  to  die — 

All  his  bright  young  life  before  him.  ’Neath  the 
darkening  English  sky 

Bessie  comes  with  flying  footsteps,  eyes  aglow  with 
love-light  sweet; 

Kneeling  on  the  turf  beside  him,  lays  his  pardon  at 
his  feet. 

In  his  brave,  strong  arms  he  clasped  her,  kissed  th# 
face  upturned  and  white, 

Whispered,  “ Darling,  you  have  saved  me — 

Curfew  will  not  ring  to-night ! ” 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe. 


HOME  SONGS. 


175 


HOME  SONGS. 


H,  sing  once  more  those  joy-provoking 
strains, 

Which,  half  forgotten,  in  my  mem- 
ory dwell ! 

They  send  the  life-blood  bounding  through  my 
veins. 

And  circle  round  me  like  an  airy  spell. 

The  songs  of  home  are  to  the  human  heart 

Far  dearer  than  the  notes  that  song-birds  pour, 
And  of  our  inner  nature  seem  a part. 

Then  sing  those  dear  familiar  lays  once  more — 
Those  cheerful  lays  of  other  days — 

Oh,  sing  those  cheerful  lays  once  more. 

Anonymous. 


THE  DEAREST  SPOT  OF  EARTH  IS 
HOME. 

HE  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 
Is  home,  sweet  home ! 

The  fairy  land  I long  to  see 
Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There,  how  charmed  the  sense  of 
hearing ! 

There,  where  love  is  so  endearing ! 

All  the  world  is  not  so  cheering 
As  home,  sweet  home ! 

The  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 
Is  home,  sweet  home ! 

The  fairy  land  I long  to  see 
Is  home,  sweet  home ! 

I’ve  taught  my  heart  the  way  to  prize 
My  home,  sweet  home  ! 

I’ve  learned  to  look  with  lovers’  eyes 
On  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There,  where  vows  are  truly  plighted  ! 
There,  where  hearts  are  so  united  ! 


All  the  world  besides  I’ve  slighted 
For  home,  sweet  home  ! 


The  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 
Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 

The  fairy  land  I long  to  see 
Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 

W.  T.  Wrighton'. 


BOOKS. 

N the  best  books,  great  men  talk  to  us,  give  us  their  most  precious 
thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls  into  ours.  God  be  thanked  for  books  1 
They  are  the  voices  of  the  distant  and  the  dead,  and  make  us  heirs  of 
the  spiritual  life  of  past  ages.  Books  are  the  true  levellers.  They  give 
to  all  who  will  faithfully  use  them  the  society,  the  spiritual  presence,  of  the  best  and 
greatest  of  our  race.  No  matter  how  poor  I am — no  matter  though  the  prosperous 
of  my  own  time  will  not  enter  my  obscure  dwelling — if  the  sacred  writers  will  enter 
and  take  up  their  abode  under  my  roof,  if  Milton  will  cross  my  threshold  to  sing  to 
me  of  Paradise,  and  Shakspeare  to  open  to  me  the  worlds  of  imagination  and  the 
workings  of  the  human  heart,  and  Franklin  to  enrich  me  with  his  practical  wisdom 
— I shall  not  pine  for  want  of  intellectual  companionship,  and  I may  become  a culti- 
vated man,  though  excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best  society  in  the  place  where 
I live.  Wm.  Ellery  Channing. 


176 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


’M  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a bright  May  mornin’  long  ago, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride ; 
The  corn  was  springin’  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high; 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 
And  my  arm’s  young  strength  was  gone; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 

I bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 


The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 

The  lark’s  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 

But  I miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand. 
And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek; 

And  I still  keep  list’nin’  for  the  words 
You  nevermore  will  speak. 

*Tis  but  a step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 

For  I’ve  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep. 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I’m  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends; 

But,  O,  they  love  the  better  still 
The  few  our  Father  sends! 

And  you  were  all  I had,  Mary — 

My  blessin’  and  my  pride ; 

There’s  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


I thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 

When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin’  there. 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake; 

I bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 

O,  I’m  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can’t  reach  you  more ! 

I’m  biddin’  you  a long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 

But  I’ll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I’m  goin’  to; 

They  say  there’s  bread  and  work  for  all. 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I’ll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 
I’ll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 
To  the  place  where  Mary  lies; 

And  I’ll  think  I see  the  little  stile 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 

And  the  springin’  corn,  and  the  bright  May  mom, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

Helen  Selina  Sheridan,  Lady  Dufferin. 


BAIRNIES,  CUDDLE  DOON. 


HE  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht, 

Wi’  muckle  faucht  an’  din ; 

“ O,  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues, 
Your  faither’s  cornin’  in.” 

They  never  heed  a word  I speak ; 

I try  to  gie  a froon, 

But  aye  1 hap  them  up,  and  cry 
“ O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon.” 

Wee  Jamie  wi’  the  curly  heid — 

He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa’, 

Bangs  up  an’  cries,  “ I want  a piece,” 

The  rascal  starts  them  a’. 

I rin  an’  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, 

They  stop  awee  the  soun’, 

They  draw  the  blankets  up  an’  cry, 

“ Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon.” 

But  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 
Cries  out,  frae  ’neath  the  claes, 

44  Mither,  male’  Tam  gie  ower  at  ance, 

He’s  kittlin’  wi’  his  taes.” 

The  mischief’s  in  that  Tam  for  tricks, 

He’d  bother  half  the  toon ; 

But  aye  I hap  them  up  an’  cry, 

“ O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon.” 


At  length  they  hear  their  faither’s  fit, 

An’,  as  he  seeks  the  door, 

They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa’. 

While  Tam  pretends  to  snore. 

“ Hae  a’  the  weens  been  gude  ? ” he  asks. 

As  he  pite  off  his  shoon. 

“ The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 

An’  lang  since  cuddled  doon.” 

An’  just  afore  we  bed  oursels, 

We  look  at  our  wee  lambs ; 

Tam  has  his  airm  roun’  wee  Rab’s  neck, 

An’  Rab  his  airm  roun’  Tam’s. 

I list  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed, 

An’  as  I straik  each  croon, 

I whisper  till  my  heart  fills  up, 

“ O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon.” 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht, 

Wi’  mirth  that’s  dear  to  me ; 

But  sune  the  big  warld’s  cark  an’  care 
Will  quaten  doon  their  glee. 

Yet,  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  who  sits  aboon 

Aye  whisper,  though  their  pows  be  bauld, 

“O,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon.” 

Alex.  Anderson. 


“ ’Tis  but  a step  down  yonder  lane,  “ But  the.  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary;  For  I’ve  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

I see  the  spire  from  here,  With  your  baby  on  your  breast.” 


12 


(*77) 


i78 


ADDRESS  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  GETTYSBURG  CEMETERY. 


ADDRESS  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  GETTYSBURG  CEMETERY. 

OURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth 
upon  this  continent  a new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and 
dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. 
Now  we  are  engaged  in  a great  civil  war,  testing  whether 
that  nation,  or  any  nation,  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated* 
can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a great  battle-field  of  that 
war.  We  are  met  to  dedicate  a portion  of  it  as  the  final 
resting-place  of  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live. 

It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But 
in  a larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we 
cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who 
struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or 
detract.  The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long  remember  what  we  say 
here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here. 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be 
here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us,  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  the  cause  for  which  they 
gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion  ; that  we  here  highly  resolve  that 
these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that  the  nation  shall,  under  God,  have  a new 
birth  of  freedom,  and  that  the  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the 
people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth.  Abraham  Lincoln. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch  ! stitch  ! stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still,  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
She  sang  the  “ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ” 

“ Work  ! work  ! work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

And  work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 

It’s  oh  ! to  be  a slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a soul  to  save, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work  ! 

“ Work — work — work ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ! 

Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 


Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Till  over  the  buttons  I fall  asleep, 
And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream  ! 

“ Oh  ! men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

Oh  ! men  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you’re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures’  lives  ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a double  thread, 
A shroud  as  well  as  a shirt ! 

“ But  why  do  I talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I keep : 

O God  ! that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 


TRA  YELLING. 


i/9 


Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 

And  what  are  its  wages  ? A bed  of  straw, 

A crust  of  bread — and  rags  : 

A shatter’d  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A tat>le — a broken  chair — 

And  a wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

“ Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ; 

Work — work — work  ! 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumb’d, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand  ! 

**  Work — work — work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light ; 

And  work — work — work  ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ; 
While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 


“ Oh  ! but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  j 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet : 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I used  to  feel, 

Before  I knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a meal ! 

“ Oh  ! but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A respite,  however  brief ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 

A little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart— 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread  ! ” 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  ; 

Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  ! — 

She  sung  this  “ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ” 

Thomas  Hood. 


TRAVELLING. 

HAVE  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavigation  of  the  globe  for 
the  purposes  of  art,  of  study  and  benevolence,  so  that  the  man  is  first 
domesticated,  or  does  not  go  abroad  with  the  hope  of  finding  somewhat 
greater  than  he  knows.  He  who  travels  to  be  amused  or  to  get  some- 
what which  he  does  not  carry,  travels  away  from  himself,  and  grows  old 
even  in  youth  among  old  things.  In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will  and 
mind  have  become  old  and  dilapidated  as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to 
ruins. 

Travelling  is  a fool’s  paradise.  We  owe  to  our  first  journeys  the 
discovery  that  place  is  nothing.  At  home  I dream  that  at  Naples,  at 
Rome,  I can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  lose  my  sadness.  I pack 
my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  the  sea,  and  at  last  wake  up  at  Naples, 
and  there  beside  me  is  the  stern  fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I fled 
from.  I seek  the  Vatican  and  the  palaces.  I affect  to  be  intoxicated  with  sights 
and  suggestions,  but  I am  not  intoxicated.  My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I go. 

But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a symptom  of  a deeper  unsoundness  affecting 
the  whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect  is  vagabond,  and  the  universal  system  of 
education  fosters  restlessness.  Our  minds  travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay 
at  home.  We  imitate;  and  what  is  imitation  but  the  travelling  of  the  mind?  Our 
houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste ; our  shelves  are  garnished  with  foreign  orna- 
ments ; our  opinions,  our  tastes,  our  whole  minds  lean  to  and  follow  the  past  and 
the  distant  as  the  eyes  of  a maid  follow  her  mistress.  The  soul  created  the  arts 


i8o 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS. 


wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind  that  the  artist  sought  his 
model.  It  was  an  application  of  his  own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the 
conditions  to  be  observed.  And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the  Gothic  model  ? 
Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought,  and  quaint  expression  are  as  near  to  us  as 
to  any,  and  if  the  American  artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  tc 
be  done  by  him,  considering  the  climate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the  day,  the  wants 
of  the  people,  the  habit  and  form  of  the  government,  he  will  create  a house  in  which 
all  these  will  find  themselves  fitted,  and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  satisfied  also. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


“NIGHT  THOUGHTS.” 


IRED  Nature’s  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  fortune  smiles ; the  wretched  he  for- 
sakes ; 

Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  woe. 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a tear. 

From  short,  (as  usual,)  and  disturb’d  repose, 

I wake  : how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more  ! 

Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave. 

I wake,  emerging  from  a sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous;  where  my  wreck’d  desponding  thought, 
From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery, 

At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 

Though  now  restored,  ’tis  only  change  of  pain, 

(A  bitter  change  ! ) severer  for  severe. 

The  day  too  short  for  my  distress ; and  night, 

Even  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 

Is  sunshine  to  the  color  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  goddess ! from  her  ebon  throne, 

In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o’er  a slumbering  world. 

Silence,  how  dead  ! and  darkness  how  profound  ! 
Nor  nor  listening  ear,  an  object  finds; 

Creation  sleeps.  ’Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a pause, 

An  awful  pause,  prophetic  of  her  end. 

And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfill’d : 

Fate!  drop  the  curtain:  I can  lose  no  more. 

Silence,  and  Darkness ! solemn  sisters ! twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 

(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man,) 

Assist  me  : I will  thank  you  in  the  grave — 

The  grave,  your  kingdom  : there  this  frame  shall  fall 
A victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 

But  what  are  ye  ? — Thou  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primaeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars, 

Exulting,  shouted  on  the  rising  ball ; 

4 O Thou,  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul ; 

My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure  ? 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature,  and  of  soul, 

This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray. 

To  lighten  and  to  cheer.  Oh,  lead  my  mind ; 

(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  woe ; ) 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death; 


And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song ; 

Teach  my  best  reason,  reason;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude  ; and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear; 

Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  pour’d 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  pour’d  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.  We  take  no  note  of  time. 
But  from  its  loss.  To  give  it  then  a tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.  As  if  an  angel  spoke, 

I feel  the  solemn  sound.  If  heard  aright, 

It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours : 

Where  are  they  ? With  the  years  beyond  the  flood 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch  : 

How  much  is  to  be  done  ! my  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarm’d,  and  o’er  life’s  narrow  verge 
Look  down — On  what  ? A fathomless  abyss ; 

A dread  eternity  ! how  surely  mine  ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour? 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man ! 

How  passing  wonder  Fie  who  made  him  such! 
Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes, 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mix’d  ! 
Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 
Distinguish’d  link  in  being’s  endless  chain ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 

A beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorb’d! 

Though  sullied,  and  dishonor’d,  still  divine  ! 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 

An  heir  of  glory ! a frail  child  of  dust ! 

Helpless  immortal ! insect  infinite  ! 

A worm  ! a god  ! — I tremble  at  myself, 

And  in  myseif  am  lost ! at  home  a stranger; 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast. 
And  wondering  at  her  own.  How  reason  reels ! 
Oh,  what  a miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 

Triumphantly  distress’d  ! what  joy,  what  dread! 
Alternately  transported,  and  alarm’d  ! 

What  can  preserve  my  life  ! or  what  destroy ! 

An  angel’s  arm  can’t  snatch  me  from  the  grave , 
Legions  of  angels  can’t  confine  me  there. 

’Tis  past  conjecture;  all  things  rise  in  proof; 
While  o’er  my  limbs  sleep’s  soft  dominion  spread*, 
What  though  my  soul  fantastic  measures  trod 
O’er  fairy  fields ; or  mourn’d  along  the  gloom 


11  NIGHT  THOUGHTS ” T 8 1 


Even  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal ; 

Even  silent  night  proclaims  eternal  day. 

For  human  weal,  Heaven  husbands  all  events; 

Dull  sleep  instructs,  nor  sport  vain  dreams  in  vain. 

Why  ..hen  their  loss  deplore,  that  are  not  lost  ? 
Why  wanders  wretched  thought  their  tombs  around 
In  infidel  distress  ? Are  angels  there  ? 

Slumbers,  raked  up  in  dust,  ethereal  fire  ? 


Of  pathless  woods ; or  down  the  craggy  steep 
Hurl’d  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled  pool. 
Or  scaled  the  cliff ; or  danced  on  hollow  wfinds, 

With  antique  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain  ! 

Her  ceaseless  flight,  though  devious,  speaks  her  nature 
Of  subtler  essence  than  the  trodden  clod ; 

Active,  aerial,  towering,  unconfined, 

Unfetter’d  with  her  gross  companion’s  fall. 


They  live ! they  greatly  live  a life  on  earth 
Unkindled,  unconceived ; and  from  an  eye 
Of  tenderness  let  heavenly  pity  fall 
On  me,  more  justly  number’d  with  the  dead. 
This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude ; 

How  populous,  how  vital,  is  the  grave  ! 


This  is  creation’s  melancholy  vault, 

The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom ; 

The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades ! 

All,  all  on  earth,  is  shadow;  all  beyond 
Is  substance;  the  reverse  is  Folly’s  creed: 

How  solid  all,  where  change  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Edward  Young. 


i82 


“ WRITE  THEM  A LETTER  TO-NIGHT : 


“WRITE  THEM  A LETTER 
TO-NIGHT.” 


ON’T  go  to  the  thea- 
tre, concert,  or 
ball. 

But  stay  in  your 
room  to-night; 
Deny  yourself  to  the 
friends  that 
call, 

And  a good  long 
letter  write — 
Write  to  the  sad  old 
folks  at  home, 
Who  sit  when  the 
day  is  done, 
With  folded  hands 
and  downcast 
eyes, 

And  think  of  the  absent  one. 


Don’t  selfishly  scribble  “excuse 
my  haste, 

I’ve  scarcely  the  time  to  write,” 
Lest  their  brooding  thoughts  go 
wandering  back 

To  many  a bygone  night — 
When  they  lost  their  needed  sleep 
and  rest, 

And  every  breath  was  a 
prayer — 

That  God  would  leave  their  deli- 
cate babe 

To  their  tender  love  and  care. 


Don’t  let  them  feel  that  you’ve  no 
more  need 
Of  their  love  or  counsel  wise  ; 

For  the  heart  grows  strongly  sensitive  ' 

When  age  has  dimmed  the  eyes — 

It  might  be  well  to  let  them  believe 
You  never  forget  them,  quite; 

That  you  deem  it  a pleasure,  when  far  away, 

Long  letters  home  to  write. 


Don’t  think  that  the  young  and  giddy  friends, 
Who  make  your  pastime  gay, 

Have  half  the  anxious  thought  for  you 
That  the  old  folks  have  to-day. 

The  duty  of  writing  do  not  put  off; 

Let  sleep  or  pleasure  wait, 

Lest  the  letter  for  which  they  looked  and  longed 
Be  a day  or  an  hour  too  late. 

For  the  loving,  sad  old  folks  at  home, 

With  locks  fast  turning  white, 

Are  longing  to  hear  from  the  absent  one — 

Write  them  a letter  to-night. 

Anonymous. 


“FIVE  TWICES.” 

APA,  the  bell’s  a ringin’ 

For  church — an’  mus’  you  go? 
And  I was  been  a bringin’ 

Your  boots  an’  fings  for  you. 
And  that’s  all  I’m  a good  for 
Jus’  cos’  to  love  you  some. 

And  here’s  my  bestes’  hood,  for 
To  meet  you  cornin’  home. 

“ Now  jus’  I want  you  kiss 
Afore  you  goes  away, 

’Cause  maybe  you  might  miss  me-* 

Bein’  to  church  all  day. 

Now  I’m  ‘ your  little  mices,* 

To  creep  up  on  your  knee ; 

*F  you’ll  kiss  me  all five  twices 
Why — then — I’ll — let  you  be .” 

So  climbs  “ my  little  mices” 

Upon  my  willing  knees, 

And  takes  her  full  “ five  twices  ” 

As  oft  as  doth  her  please ; 

The  while  that  I am  drinking 
Kiss-cups  of  purest  bliss, 

And,  dreamy-joyous,  thinking, 

Was  ever  love  like  this  ? 

Yet  mid  my  fond  caressing, 

I mind  the  time  of  old, 

When  little  ones  for  blessing. 

The  Christ-arms  did  unfold. 

And  so  I tell  the  story 
Unto  my  little  maid — 

How  our  good  Lord  of  Glory, 

While  here  with  us  He  stayed, 

Would  take  the  little  children 
Up  on  His  friendly  knee, 

The  while  His  kindness  filled  them 
With  fearless,  gentle  glee. 

Then,  soft  and  sweetly  laying 
His  dear  hand  on  their  head, 

They  knew  that  He  was  praying — 

They  heard  the  prayer  He  said! 

And  so,  her  blue  eyes  deeping, 

Upon  her  head  I lay 
My  hand,  while,  moved  to  weeping. 

Unto  the  Lord  I say  : 

“ Oh,  loving,  gracious  Father, 

Bless  this  dear  babe,  I pray, 

And  with  Thy  people  gather 
My  child,  at  that  great  day.” 

Bathed  in  a holy  beauty 
The  little  maid  slips  down. 

And  I to  “higher  duty” 

The  chiming  summons  own. 

But  childhood’s  quaint  devices 
Once  more  must  needs  appear, 

“ Did  He  kiss  'em  all  five  twices  ? ” 

Is  the  last  word  I hear! 

Rev.  J.  K.  Nutt 


THE  BABY. 


18 


Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 

Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 

God  thought  about  me , and  so  I grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 

God  thought  of  you , and  so  I am  here. 

George  Macdonald 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP, 


OU  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon*. 
A mile  or  so  away, 

On  a little  mound,  Napoleon 
Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 


Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  “ My  plans 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 
Waver  at  yonder  wall  ” — 

Out  ’twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 
A rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 
Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


THE  BABY. 

&HERE  did  you  come  from,  baby 
Q dear  ? 

Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  spar- 
kle and  spin  ? 

Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 


Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 

I found  it  waiting  when  I got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
A soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a warm  white  rose? 
Something  better  than  any  one  knows. 


Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  that  pearly  ear  ? 

God  spoke , and  it  came  out  to  hear. 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy. 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse’s  mane,  a boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through), 

You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

“ Well,”  cried  he,  “ Emperor,  by  God’s  grace, 
We’ve  got  you  Ratisbon! 

The  marshal’s  in  the  market  place, 

And  you’ll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 
Where  I,  to  heart’s  desire, 

Perched  him  ! ” The  chief’s  eye  flashed ; his  plans 
Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief’s  eye  flashed;  but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A film  the  mother-eagle’s  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 

“You’re  wounded  ! ” “ Nay,”  his  soldier’s  pride 
Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 

“ I’m  killed,  sire  ! ” And,  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


184. 


THE  ALHAMBRA  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


THE  ALHAMBRA  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


HE  moon,  which  then  was  invisible,  has  gradually  gained  upon  the  nights, 
and  now  rolls  in  full  splendor  above  the  towers,  pouring  a flood  of  tem- 
pered light  into  every  court  and  hall.  The  garden  beneath  my  window 
is  gently  lighted  up,  the  orange  and  citron  trees  are  tipped  with  silver, 
the  fountain  sparkles  in  the  moonbeams,  and  even  the  blush  of  the  rose  is  faintly 
visible. 

I have  sat  for  hours  at  my  window  inhaling  the  sweetness  of  the  garden,  and 
musing  on  the  checkered  features  of  those  whose  history  is  dimly  shadowed  out  in 
the  elegant  memorials  around.  Sometimes  I have  issued  forth  at  midnight  when 
every  thing  was  quiet,  and  have  wandered  over  the  whole  building.  Who  can  do 
justice  to  a moonlight  night  in  such  a climate  and  in  such  a place  ? The  tempera- 
ture of  an  Andalusian  midnight,  in  summer,  is  perfectly  ethereal.  We  seem  lifted 
up  into  a purer  atmosphere ; there  is  a serenity  of  soul,  a buoyancy  of  spirits,  an 
elasticity  of  frame,  that  render  mere  existence  enjoyment.  The  effect  of  moonlight, 
too,  on  the  Alhambra  has  something  like  enchantment.  Every  rent  and  chasm  of 
time,  every  mouldering  tint  and  weather-stain,  disappears,  the  marble  resumes  its 
original  whiteness,  the  long  colonnades  brighten  in  the  moonbeams,  the  halls  are 
illuminated  with  a softened  radiance,  until  the  whole  edifice  reminds  one  of  the  en- 
chanted palace  of  an  Arabian  tale. 

At  such  time  I have  ascended  to  the  little  pavilion,  called  the  Queen’s  Toilette,  to 
enjoy  its  varied  and  extensive  prospect.  To  the  right,  the  snowy  summits  of  the 


O,  LA  Y THY  HAND  IN  MINE , DEAR ! 


185 


Sierra  Nevada  would  gleam  like  silver  clouds  against  the  darker  firmament,  and  all 
the  outlines  of  the  mountain  would  be  softened,  yet  delicately  defined.  My  delight, 
however,  would  be  to  lean  over  the  parapet  of  the  tocador,  and  gaze  down  upon 
Granada,  spread  out  like  a map  below  me,  all  buried  in  deep  repose,  and  its  white 
palaces  and  convents  sleeping  as  it  were  in  the  moonshine. 

Sometimes  I would  hear  the  faint  sounds  of  castanets  from  some  party  of  dancers 
lingering  in  the  Alameda ; at  other  times  I have  heard  the  dubious  tones  of  a guitar, 
and  the  notes  of  a single  voice  rising  from  some  solitary  street,  and  have  pictured  to 
myself  some  youthful  cavalier  serenading  his  lady’s  window — a gallant  custom  of 
former  days,  but  now  sadly  on  the  decline,  except  in  the  remote  towns  and  villages 
of  Spain. 

Such  are  the  scenes  that  have  detained  me  for  many  an  hour  loitering  about  the 
courts  and  balconies  of  the  castle,  enjoying  that  mixture  of  reverie  and  sensation 
which  steals  away  existence  in  a Southern  climate — and  it  has  been  almost  morning 
before  I have  retired  to  my  bed,  and  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  falling  waters  of 
the  fountain  of  Lindaraxa.  Washington  Irving. 


O,  LAY  THY  HAND  IN  MINE,  DEAR! 

LAY  thy  hau  l 
in  mine,  dear ! 
We’re  grow 
ing  old ; 

But  Time  hath 
brought  no 
sign,  dear, 
That  hearts 
grow  cold. 
’Tis  long,  long 
since  our  new 
love 

Made  life  di 
vine; 

But  age  enrichetli 
true  love, 

Like  noble  wine. 


THE  GIFTS  OF  GOD. 

HEN  God  at  first  made  man, 

Having  a glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 
Let  us  {said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  world’s  riches,  which  dispersed  lie^ 
Contract  into  a span. 

So  strength  first  made  a way; 

Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom', honor,  pleasure: 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone,  of  all  his  treasure. 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I should  (said  He) 

Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 

He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 

And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature : 

So  both  should  losers  be. 


And  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest ; 

Mine.arms  around  thee  twine,  dear, 

And  make  thy  nest. 

A many  cares  are  pressing 
On  this  dear  head  ; 

But  Sorrow’s  hands  in  blessing 
Are  surely  laid. 

O,  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear ! 

’Twill  shelter  thee. 

Thou  wert  a winsome  vine,  dear, 

On  my  young  tree  : 

And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless, 

And  songbirds  flown, 

We’ll  twine,  then  lay  us,  griefless, 
Together  down. 

Gerald  Massey. 


Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  : 

Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that,  at  lea>t. 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  my  breast. 

George  Herbert. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  AN  INFANT. 

HILE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she 
kneels, 

And  the  blue  vales  a thousand  joys  recall,. 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 
O,  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 

And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 

Leonidas  of  Alexandria  [Greek)* 


TO  A WATERFOWL. 


1 86 


TO  A WATERFOWL. 


HITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  witk  the  last  steps 
of  day, 

Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 


Vainly  the  fowler’s  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek’st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 


There  is  a Power  whose  care 
Reaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 


All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere. 

Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a summer  home,  and  rest, 

And  scream  among  thy  fellows ; reeds  shall  bend. 
Soon,  o’er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou’rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ; yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


HUMILITY. 

HE  only  true  independence  is  in  humility;  for  the  humble  man  exacts 
nothing,  and  cannot  be  mortified — expects  nothing,  and  cannot  be  dis- 
appointed. Humility  is  also  a healing  virtue ; it  will  cicatrize  a thou- 
sand wounds,  which  pride  would  keep  forever  open.  But  humility  is 
not  the  virtue  of  a fool ; since  it  is  not  consequent  upon  any  comparison  between 
ourselves  and  others,  but  between  what  we  are  and  what  we  ought  to  be — which  no 
■man  ever  was.  Washington  Allston. 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 


187 


ODE  TO  THE 

VILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath 
of  Autumn’s  being, 
Thou  from  whose  unseen 
presence  the  leaves 
dead 

Are  driven  like  ghosts  from  an 
enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale, 
and  hectic  red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes ! 
O thou 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark 
wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they 
lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o’er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 

With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill ; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 

Destroyer  and  preserver ; hear,  oh,  hear ! 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  ’mid  the  steep  sky’s  com- 
motion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth’s  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 
Angels  of  rain  and  lightning ! there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 
Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith’s  height, 

The  locks,  of  the  approaching  storm.  Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a vast  sepulchre, 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst : Oh,  hear ! 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 


WEST  WIND. 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Besides  a pumice  isle  in  Baiae’s  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave’s  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  ! Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic’s  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know 
Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 

And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  : Oh,  hear ! 

If  I were  a dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I were  a swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O uncontrollable  ! if  even 
I were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 
The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a vision — I would  ne’er  have  striven 
As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

Oh  ! lift  me  as  a wave,  a leaf,  a cloud ! 

I fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life ! I bleed-! 

A heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own? 

The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a deep  autumnal  tone, 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit ! Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 
The  trumpet  of  a prophecy ! O Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


NO! 


O sun — no  moon ! 

No  morn — no  noon — 

No  dawn — no  dust — no  proper  time  of 

No  sky — no  earthly  view — 

No  distance  looking  blue — 

No  road — no  street — no  “ t’  other  side  the  way  ” — 
No  end  to  any  Row — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go — 
No  top  to  any  steeple — 

No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  ’em — 

No  knowing  ’em ! 


No  travelling  at  all — no  locomotion, 

No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 

“ No  go  ” — by  land  or  ocean — 
No  mail — no  post — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast — 
No  park — no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company — no  nobility — 

No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 

No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November! 


Thomas  Hood. 


88 


LAST  MOMENTS  OF  MOZART 


LAST  MOMENTS  OF  MOZART. 


FEW  months  before  the  death  of  the 
celebrated  Mozart,  a mysterious 
stranger  brought  him  an  anony- 
mous letter,  in  which  his  terms 
for  a requiem  were  required.  Mozart  gave 
them.  Soon  after  the  messenger  returned,  and 
paid  a portion  of  the  price  in  advance.  To  the 
composition  of  this  requiem  he  gave  the  full 
strength  of  his  powers.  Failing  to  learn  the 
name  of  him  who  had  ordered  it,  his  fancy  soon 
began  to  connect  something  supernatural  with 
the  affair.  The  conviction  seized  him  that  he 
was  composing  a requiem  for  his  own  obsequies. 
While  engaged  in  this  work,  and  under  this 
strange  inspiration,  he  threw  himself  back,  says 
his  biographer,  on  his  couch,  faint  and  ex- 
hausted. His  countenance  was  pale  and 
emaciated ; yet  there  was  a strange  fire  in  his 
eye,  and  the  light  of  gratified  joy  on  his  brow 
that  told  of  success. 

His  task  was  finished,  and  the  melody,  even 
to  his  exquisite  sensibility,  was  perfect.  It  had 
occupied  him  for  weeks  ; and,  though  his  form 
was  wasted  by  disease,  yet  the  spirit  seemed  to 
acquire  more  vigor,  and  already  claim  kindred 
to  immortality;  for  oft,  as  the  sound  of  his  own 
composition  stole  on  his  ear,  it  bore  an  un- 
earthly sweetness  that  was  to  him  too  truly  a 
warning  of  his  future  and  fast  coming  doom. 

Now  it  was  finished,  and,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  weeks,  he  sank  into  a quiet  and  re- 
freshing slumber.  A slight  noise  in  the  apart- 
ment awoke  him,  when,  turning  towards  a fair 
young  girl  who  entered — “ Emilie,  my  daugh- 
ter,” said  he,  “ come  near  to  me — my  task  is 
over — the  requiem  is  finished.  My  requiem,” 
he  added,  and  a sigh  escaped  him. 

“ Oh  ! say  not  so,  my  father,”  said  the  girl,  interrupting  him,  as  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes,  “ you  must  be  better,  you  look  better,  for  even  now  your  cheek  has  a glow 
upon  it ; do  let  me  bring  you  something  refreshing,  and  I am  sure  we  will  nurse  you 
well  again.” 


LAST  MOMENTS  OF  MOZART. 


I89 

“ Do  not  deceive  yourself,  my  love,”  said  he;  “ this  wasted  form  can  never  be 
restored  by  human  aid.  From  Heaven’s  mercy  alone  can  I hope  for  succor ; and  it 
will  be  granted,  Emilie,  in  the  time  of  my  utmost  need ; yes,  in  the  hour  of  death, 
I will  claim  His  help  who  is  always  ready  to  aid  those  who  trust  in  Him  ; and  soon, 
very  soon,  must  this  mortal  frame  be  laid  in  its  quiet  sleeping  place,  and  this  restless 
soul  return  to  Him  who  gave  it.” 

The  dying  father  then  raised  himself  on  his  couch  ; — “ You  spoke  of  refreshment, 
my  daughter ; it  can  still  be  afforded  my  fainting  soul.  Take  these  notes,  the  last  I 
shall  ever  pen,  and  sit  down  to  the  instrument.  Sing  with  them  the  hymn  so  be- 
loved by  your  mother,  and  let  me  once  more  hear  those  tones  which  have  been  my 
delight  since  my  earliest  remembrance.” 

Emilie  did  as  she  was  desired ; and  it  seemed  as  if  she  sought  a relief  from  her 
own  thoughts ; for,  after  running  over  a few  chords  of  the  piano,  she  commenced, 
in  the  sweetest  voice,  the  following  lines : 


Spirit ! thy  labor  is  o’er, 

Thy  term  of  probation  is  run, 

Thy  steps  are  now  bound  for  the  untrodden  shore, 
And  the  race  of  immortals  begun. 

Spirit ! look  not  on  the  strife 

Or  the  pleasures  of  earth  with  regret — 

Pause  not  on  the  threshold  of  limitless  life, 

To  mourn  for  the  day  that  is  set. 


Spirit ! no  fetters  can  bind, 

No  wicked  have  power  to  molest; 

There  the  weary,  like  thee — the  wretched  shall  find, 
A heaven — a mansion  of  rest. 

Spirit ! how  bright  is  the  road, 

For  which  thou  art  now  on  the  wing ! 

Thy  home  it  will  be  with  thy  Savior  and  God, 

Their  loud  halleluiahs  to  sing ! 


As  she  concluded  the  last  stanza,  she  dwelt  for  a few  moments  on  the  low,  mel- 
ancholy notes  of  the  piece,  and  then  waited  in  silence  for  the  mild  voice  of  her 
father’s  praise.  He  spoke  not — and,  with  something  like  surprise,  she  turned  towards 
him.  He  was  laid  back  on  the  sofa,  his  face  shaded  in  part  by  his  hand,  and  his 
form  reposing  as  if  in  slumber.  Starting  with  fear,  Emilie  sprang  towards  him  and 
seized  his  hand ; but  the  touch  paralyzed  her,  for  she  sank  senseless  by  his  side. 
He  was  gone ! With  the  sound  of  the  sweetest  melody  ever  composed  by  human 
thought,  his  soul  had  winged  its  flight  to  regions  of  eternal  bliss. 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


I90 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  BARE- 
FOOT BOY. 

“harper’s  magazine.” 

IS  evening,  and  the  round 
red  sun  sinks  slowly 
in  the  west, 

The  flowers  fold  their 
petals  up,  the  birds  fly  to  the  nest. 
The  crickets  chirrup  in  the  grass,  the 
bats  flit  to  and  fro, 

And  tinkle-tankle  up  the  lane  the  low- 
ing cattle  go; 

And  the  rich  man  from  his  carriage 
looks  out  on  them  as  they  come — 
On  them  and  on  the  Barefoot  Boy  that 
drives  the  cattle  home. 

“ I wish,”  the  boy  says  to  himself — 
‘‘  I wish  that  I were  he. 

And  yet,  upon  maturer  thought,  I do 
not — no,  sirree  ! 

Not  for  all  the  gold  his  coffers  hold 
would  I be  that  duffer  there, 
With  a liver  pad  and  a gouty  toe,  and 
scarce  a single  hair ; 

To  have  a wife  with  a Roman  nose, 
and  fear  lest  a panic  come — 

Far  better  to  be  the  Barefoot  Boy  that 
drives  the  cattle  home.” 

And  the  rich  man  murmurs  to  him- 
self : “ Would  I give  all  my  pelf 
To  change  my  lot  with  yonder  boy  ? 

Not  if  I know  myself. 

Over  the  grass  that’s  full  of  ants  and 
chill  with  dew  to  go, 

With  a stone  bruise  upon  either  heel 
and  a splinter  in  my  toe ! 

Oh,  I’d  rather  sail  my  yacht  a year 
across  the  ocean’s  foam 
Than  be  one  day  the  Barefoot  Boy 
that  drives  the  cattle  home.” 

G.  T.  Lanigan. 


FROM 


IT  SNOWS. 


T snows!”  cries  the  Schoolboy — “ Hurrah!  ” 
and  his  shout 

Is  ringing  through  parlor  and  hall, 
While  swift  as  the  wing  of  a swallow, 
he’s  out, 

And  his  playmates  have  answer’d  his  call : 

It  makes  the  heart  leap  but  to  witness  their  joy — 
Proud  wealth  has  no  pleasures,  I trow, 

Like  the  rapture  that  throbs  in  the  pulse  of  the  boy, 
As  he  gathers  his  treasures  of  snow  ; 

Then  lay  not  the  trappings  of  gold  on  thine  heirs, 
While  health  and  the  riches  of  Nature  are  theirs. 

“ It  snows  ! ” sighs  the  Imbecile — “ Ah ! ” and  his 
breath 

Comes  heavy,  as  clogg’d  with  a weight ; 


While  from  the  pale  aspect  of  Nature  in  death, 

He  turns  to  the  blaze  of  his  grate : 

And  nearer,  and  nearer,  his  soft-cushion’d  chair 
Is  wheel’d  tow’rds  the  life-giving  flame — 

He  dreads  a chill  puff  of  the  snow-burden’d  air, 

Lest  it  wither  his  delicate  frame : 

Oh,  small  is  the  pleasure  existence  can  give, 

When  the  fear  we  shall  die  only  proves  that  we  live  i 

“ It  snows ! ” cries  the  Traveller — “ Ho  ! ” and  the 
word 

Has  quicken’d  his  steed’s  lagging  pace  ; 

The  wind  rushes  by,  but  its  howl  is  unheard — 

Unfelt  the  sharp  drift  in  his  face ; 

For  bright  through  the  tempest  his  own  home  ap- 
pear'd— 


CORONACH. 


I9I 


Ay,  though  leagues  intervened,  he  can  see ; 

There’s  the  clear,  glowing  hearth,  and  the  table  pre- 
pared, 

And  his  wife  with  their  babes  at  her  knee. 

Blest  thought ! how  it  lightens  the  grief-laden  hour, 
That  those  we  love  dearest  are  safe  from  its  power ! 

* It  snows  ! ” cries  the  Belle — “ Dear,  how  lucky ! ” 
and  turns 

From  her  mirror  to  watch  the  flakes  fall ; 

Like  the  first  rose  of  summer  her  dimpled  cheek  burns 
While  musing  on  sleigh-ride  and  ball : 

There  are  visions  of  conquest,  of  splendor,  and  mirth, 
Floating  over  each  drear  winter’s  day  ; 

But  the  tintings  of  Hope,  on  this  storm-beaten  earth, 
Will  melt,  like  the  snow-flakes,  away ; 


Turn,  turn  thee  to  heaven,  fair  maiden,  for  bliss 
That  world  has  a fountain  ne’er  open’d  in  this. 

“ It  snows  ! ” cries  the  Widow — “ O God ! ” and  her 
sighs 

Have  stifled  the  voice  of  her  prayer ; 

Its  burden  ye’ll  read  in  her  tear-swollen  eyes. 

On  her  cheek,  sunk  with  fasting  and  care. 

’Tis  night — and  her  fatherless  ask  her  for  bread — 

But  “ He  gives  the  young  ravens  their  food,” 

And  she  trusts,  till  her  dark  hearth  adds  horror  to 
dread, 

And  she  lays  on  her  last  chip  of  wood. 

Poor  sufferer  ! that  sorrow  that  God  only  knows — 
’Tis  a pitiful  lot  to  be  poor  when  it  snows ! 

Sarah  Josepha  Hale. 


CORONACH. 

From  “ The  Lady  of  the  Lake,”  Canto  III. 

|E  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 

Like  a summer-dried  fountain 
When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow. 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  J 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary; 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory. 

The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest. 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 


Fleet  foot  on  the  corral, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber. 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


A PICTURE. 

HE  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 

While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 
Was  clearing  the  dinner  away ; 

A sweet  little  girl,  with  fine  blue  eyes, 

On  her  grandfather’s  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 

With  a tear  on  his  wrinkled  face ; 


He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead, 

Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place. 

As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 

“ Don’t  smoke  ! ” said  the  child ; “ how  it  makes  70U 
cry!  ” 


The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor. 
Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal ; 
The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 

Was  turning  the  spinning-wheel ; 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 


Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 
Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed ; 

His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay: 

Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer  day^ 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 


92 


SOMEWHERE. 


MY  HEART  ’S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


Y heart ’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here ; 
My  heart  5s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 

The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth ; 

Wherever  I wander,  wherever  I rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I love. 


Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 

My  heart  ’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here ; 
My  heart  ’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 

My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I go. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  MASTER’S  TOUCH. 


N the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard ; 

In  the  rough  marble  beauty  hides  unseen ; 

To  make  the  music  and  the  beauty,  needs 

The  master’s  touch,  the  sculptor’s  chisel  keen. 


Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skilful  hand; 

Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die ! 

Great  Sculptor,  hew  and  polish  us ; nor  let, 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us  lie ! 


Spare  not  the  stroke  ! do  with  us  as  thou  wilt ! 

Let  there  be  naught  unfinished,  broken,  marred ; 
Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  become 
Thy  perfect  image,  thou  our  God  and  Lord ! 

Horatius  Bonar. 


SOMEWHERE. 


OMEWHERE,  the  summer  bloom  has 
joined  the  sadder  spring: 

Somewhere  my  aching  heart  has  lost  the 
power  to  sing. 

The  days  go  by ; 

The  grieving  sunsets  die  ; 

And  yet  I make  no  outward  moan  or  cry ; 

I only  say, 

Somewhere — 

Then  turn  away. 

Somewhere  seems  so  afar  I cannot  give  it  place ; 

My  dove,  in  sudden  flight,  seems  lost  in  darkened 
space ; 

The  leaves  fall  fast, 

I hear  the  autumn  blast; 

It  was  not  sobbing  when  I heard  it  last ; 

Yet  still  I say, 

Somewhere — 

Then  turn  away. 

With  vain  protest  I seek  this  mystery  to  find ; 

I cannot. search  the  skies,  nor  fathom  worlds  behind  : 


Nothing  replies ; 

Nature  is  silent-wise ; 

The  lingering  beauty  and  the  verdure  dies ; 

Yet  still  I say, 

Somewhere — 

Then  turn  away. 

Somewhere  ; only  a breath,  and  autumn,  too,  will  go ; 
All  seasons  are  the  same,  yet,  through  the  drifting  snow, 
I may  not  see 

The  green  earth  mocking  me, 

I shall  be  left  with  grief  and  memory ; 

Yet  still  may  say, 

Somewhere — 

Then  turn  away. 

If,  when  with  tears  no  more,  I count  the  seasons  o’er 
(Knowing  not  which  of  all  the  saddest  message  bore)— 
If  then  love’s  chain 
I may  take  up  again 

Without  its  breaks,  I have  not  wept  in  vain ; 

The  great  unknown, 

Somewhere, 

Will  be  my  own. 


Anonymous. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


]93 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ; and,  driving  o’er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the 
heaven, 

13 


And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden’s  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier’s  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 


i94 


WIND  AND  RAIN 


Come  see  the  north-wind’s  masonry. 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.  Mockingly, 

On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 
A swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 


Fills  up  the  farmer’s  lane  from  wall  to  wail 
Maugre  the  farmer’s  sighs ; and  at  the  gate 
A tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind’s  night-work, 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


WIND  AND  RAIN. 


ATTLE  the  window,  Winds  ! 

Rain,  drip  on  the  panes  ! 

There  are  tears  and  sighs  in  our  hearts  and 
eyes, 

And  a weary  weight  on  our  brains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves, 

On  the  dreary  flats  of  sand ; 


And  the  blasted  limb  of  the  churchyard  yew. 
It  shakes  like  a ghostly  hand  ! 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 

Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves ; 

But  we  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts  to-day 
Than  the  Earth  in  all  her  graves  ! 

Richard  H.  Stoddard. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


HE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

The  vine  still  clings  to  the  moldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall. 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 


My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  moldering  past, 


But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blait, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!  and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  SEA. 


195 


THE  SEA. 


HE  sea  ! the  sea ! the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 

Without  a mark,  without  a bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth’s  wide  regions  round; 
It  plays  with  the  clouds ; it  mocks  the  skies ; 

Or  like  a cradled  creature  lies. 

I’m  on  the  sea!  I’m  on  the  sea! 

I am  where  I would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe’er  I go; 

If  a storm  should  come,  and  awake  the  deep, 
What  matter  ? / shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I love  (oh ! how  I love)  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 

When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 

Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 

And  why  the  southwest  blasts  do  blow 


I never  was  on  the  dull  tame  shore 
But  I loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 

And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a bird  that  seeketh  its  mother’s  nest; 

And  a mother  she  was  and  is  to  me ; 

For  I was  born  on  the  open  sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn. 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I was  born ; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child ! 

I’ve  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers  a sailor’s  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend  and  a power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me. 

Shall  come  on  the  wild  unbounded  sea! 

Bryan  W.  Proctor  ( Barry  Cornwall ). 


A WET  SHEET  AND  A FLOWING  SEA. 


WET  sheet  and  a flowing  sea, 

A wind  that  follows  fast, 

And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 
While,  like  the  eagle  free, 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh,  for  a soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I heard  a fair  one  cry  ; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breaze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 


And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 

The  world  of  writers  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There’s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud: 

And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


196 


NATURE  OF  TRUE  ELOQUENCE. 


NATURE  OF  TRUE  ELOQUENCE. 

RUE  eloquence  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from 
far.  Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain. 
Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshalled  in  every  way,  but  .they  cannot 
compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject,  and  in  the  occa- 
sion. Affected  passion,  intense  expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  aspire 
after  it — they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a 
fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting  forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous, 
original,  native  force.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments  and 
studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  disgust  men,  when  their  own  lives,  and 
the  fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  country  hang  on  the  decision  of  the 
hour.  Then  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  js  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory 
contemptible.  Even  genius  itself  then  feels  rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence 
of  higher  qualities.  Then  patriotism  is  eloquent ; then  self-devotion  is  eloquent. 
The  clear  conception,  outrunning  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm, 
resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from  the  eye,  inform- 
ing every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole  man  onward,  right  onward,  to  his  object^ 
this,  this  is  eloquence ; or,  rather,  it  is  something  greater  and  higher  than  all  elo- 
quence: it  is  action,  noble,  sublime,  God-like  action.  Daniel  Webster. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

N Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 

Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade. 

And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 

To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden’s  hills  of  stained  snow, 

And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

*Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 


The  combat  deepens.  On,  ye  brave. 

Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 

Wave,  Munich  ! all  thy  banners  wave. 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 

And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a soldier’s  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


A MAIDEN’S  IDEAL  OF  A HUSBAND^ 

FROM  “THE  CONTRIVANCES.” 

ENTEEL  in  personage, 

Conduct,  and  equipage, 

Noble  by  heritage, 

Generous  and  free : 

Brave,  not  romantic ; 

Learned,  not  pedantic ; 

Frolic,  not  frantic; 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 

Meanness  disdaining, 

Still  entertaining, 

Engaging  and  new. 

Neat,  but  not  finical ; 

Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 

Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true. 

Henry  Careyv 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  TIDE. 


1 97 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  TIDE. 


N the  bank  of  a river 
was  seated  one  day 
An  old  man,  and 
close  by  liis  side 
Was  a child  who  had 
paused  from  his 
laughing  and  play 

To  gaze  at  the  stream,  as  it  hur- 
ried away 

To  the  sea,  with  the  ebb  of 
the  tide. 

* What  see  you,  my  child,  in  the 

stream,  as  it  flows 
To  the  ocean,  so  dark  and 
deep? 

Are  you  watching  how  swift,  yet 
how  silent  it  goes  ? 

Thus  hurry  our  lives,  till  they  sink 
in  repose, 

And  are  lost  in  a measureless 
sleep. 

* Now  listen,  my  boy  ! You  are 

young,  I am  old, 

And  yet  like  two  rivers  are 
we ; 

Though  the  flood-tide  of  youth 
from  Time’s  ocean  i 
rolled, 

Yet  it  ebbs  all  too  soon,  and  iti 
waters  grow  cold 
As  it  creeps  back  again  to 
the  sea.” 


“ But  the  river  returns  ! ” cried  the  boy,  while  his  eyes 
G1  earned  bright  at  the  water  below. 

“Ah!  yes,”  said  the  old  man;  “ but  time,  as  it  flies, 
Turns  the  tide  of  our  life,  and  it  never  can  rise.” 

“ But  first,”  said  the  boy,  “ it  must  flow.” 


Thus,  watching  its  course  from  the  bank  of  the  stream. 
They  mused,  as  they  sat  side  by  side ; 

Each  read  different  tales  in  the  river’s  bright  gleam—* 
One  borne  with  the  flow  of  a glorious  dream, 

And  one  going  out  with  the  tide. 

Anonymous. 


HOME. 

FROM  “THE  TRAVELLER.” 

UT  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to 
know  ? 

The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 

Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 

And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 

The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 

Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 

Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave. 

And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot’s  boast,  where’er  we  roam, 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 

And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 
tt.s  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 

To  different  nations  makes  their  blessing  even. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


NO  BABY  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

O baby  in  the  house,  I know, 

’Tis  far  too  nice  and  clean. 

No  toys,  by  careless  fingers  strewn, 

Upon  the  floors  are  seen. 

No  finger-marks  are  on  the  panes, 

No  scratches  on  the  chairs  ; 

No  wooden  men  set  up  in  rows, 

Or  marshalled  off  in  pairs; 

No  little  stockings  to  be  darned, 

All  ragged  at  the  toes ; 

No  pile  of  mending  to  be  done, 

Made  up  of  baby-clothes; 

No  little  troubles  to  be  soothed; 

No  little  hands  to  fold ; 

No  grimy  fingers  to  be  washed ; 

No  stories  to  be  told ; 

No  tender  kisses  to  be  given  ; 

No  nicknames,  “ Dove”  and  “ Mouse;  ** 
No  merry  frolics  after  tea — 

No  baby  in  the  house ! 

Clara  G Doi.liver, 


198 


THE  CLOUDS. 


TRUTH. 

F the  whole  world  should  agree  to  speak  nothing  but  truth,  what  an 
abridgment  it  would  make  of  speech  ! And  what  an  unravelling  there 
would  be  of  the  invisible  webs  which  men,  like  so  many  spiders,  now 
weave  about  each  other ! But  the  contest  between  Truth  and  Falsehood 
is  now  pretty  well  balanced.  Were  it  not  so,  and  had  the  latter  the  mastery,  even 
language  would  soon  become  extinct,  from  its  very  uselessness.  The  present  super- 
fluity of  words  is  the  result  of  the  warfare.  Washington  Allston. 


THE  CLOUDS. 


BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 
flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 

I bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when 
laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one, 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother’s  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

I wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under. 

And  then  again  I dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I pass  in  thunder. 

I sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 

And  all  the  night  ’tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  1 sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 

Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowsers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 

In  a cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 

Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 

And  I all  the  while  bask  in  heaven’s  blue  smile. 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his-  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 

Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 

As  on  the  jag  of  a mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 

An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 
Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 

With  wings  folded  I rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a brooding  dove. 


That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 

Glides  glimmering  o’er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent’s  thin  roof. 
The  stars  peep  .behind  her  and  peer; 

And  I laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a swarm  of  golden  bees, 

When  I widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I bind  the  sun’s  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon’s  with  a girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape  with  a bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a torrent  sea, 

Sunbeam  proof,  I hang  like  a roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

Whilst  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  : 

I pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I change,  but  I cannot  die. 

For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 

I silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

Like  a child  from  the  womb,  like  a ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I arise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


“ I bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 

I bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noonday  di earns. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one.” 

(199) 


200 


AN  AX  TO  GRIND. 


AN  AX  TO  GRIND. 

HEN  I was  a little  boy,  I remember,  one  cold  winter  morning  I was  ac- 
costed by  a smiling  man  with  an  ax  on  his  shoulder.  “ My  pretty  boy,” 
said  he,  “has  your  father  a grindstone?”  “ Yes,  sir,”  said  I.  “You 
are  a fine  little  fellow,”  said  he ; “ will  you  let  me  grind  my  ax  on  it?  ” 
Pleased  with  the  compliment  of  “ fine  little  fellow,”  “ Oh,  yes,  sir,”  I answered ; “ it 
is  down  in  the  shop.” 

“And  will  you,  my  man,”  said  he,  patting  me  on  the  head,  “ get  me  a little  hot 
water?  ” How  could  I refuse  ? I ran  and  soon  brought  a kettleful.  “ I am  sure,” 
continued  he,  “ you  are  one  of  the  finest  lads  that  ever  I have  seen;  will  you  just 
turn  a few  minutes  for  me?  ” 

Pleased  with  the  flattery,  I went  to  work ; and  I toiled  and  tugged  till  I was  al- 
most tired  to  death.  The  school-bell  rang,  and  I could  not  get  away ; my  hands 
were  blistered,  and  the  ax  was  not  half  ground. 

At  length,  however,  it  was  sharpened  ; and  the  man  turned  to  me  with,  “ Now, 
you  little  rascal,  you’ve  played  truant;  be  off  to  school,  or  you’ll  rue  it!  ” 

“Alas ! ” thought  I,  “ it  is  hard  enough  to  turn  a grindstone,  but  now  to  be  called 
a little  rascal,  is  too  much.”  It  sank  deep  into  my  mind,  and  often  have  I thought 
of  it  since.  When  I see  a merchant  over  polite  to  his  customers,  methinks,  “ That 
man  has  an  ax  to  grind.” 

When  I see  a man,  who  is  in  private  life  a tyrant,  flattering  the  people,  and  mak- 
ing great  professions  of  attachment  to  liberty,  methinks,  “ Look  out,  good  people ! 
that  fellow  would  set  you  turning  grindstones ! ” 

Benjamin  Franklin. 


TOM  BOWLING. 


ERE,  a sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 
The  darling  of  our  crew ; 

No  more  he’ll  hear  the  tempest  howling, 
For  death  has  broached  him  too. 

His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 

Faithful,  below,  he  did  his  duty ; 

But  now  he’s  gone  aloft. 


Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare, 

His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted, 
His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair  : 

And  then  he’d  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly, 
Ah,  many’s  the  time  and  oft ! 

But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 


Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 
When  He  who  all  commands 
Shall  give,  to  call  life’s  crew  together, 

The  word  to  “ pipe  all  hands.” 


Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches. 

In  vain  Tom’s  life  has  doffed; 

For  though  his  body’s  under  hatches. 

His  soul  has  gone  aloft. 

Charles  Dibdin. 


OCEAN. 

FROM  “THE  COURSE  OF  TIME,”  BOOK  I. 

REAT  Ocean!  strongest  of  creation’s  sons, 
Unconquerable,  unreposed,  untired, 

That  rolled  the  wild,  profound,  eternal  bass 
In  nature’s  anthem,  and  made  music  such 
As  pleased  the  ear  of  God  ! original, 

Unmarred,  unfaded  work  of  Deity ! 

And  unburlesqued  by  mortal’s  puny  skill ; 

From  age  to  age  enduring,  and  unchanged, 

Majestical,  inimitable,  vast, 

Loud  uttering  satire,  day  and  night,  on  each 
Succeeding  race,  and  little  pompous  work 
Of  man  ; unfallen,  religious,  holy  sea! 

Thou  bowedst  thy  glorious  head  to  none,  fearedst  none* 
Heardst  none,  to  none  didst  honor,  but  to  God 
Thy  Maker,  only  worthy  to  receive 
Thy  great  obeisance.  Robert  Pollok. 


THE  HOME  OF  M Y HEART. 


201 


“ For  there  at  the  casement  above, 
Where  the  rose-bushes  part, 

Will  blush  the  fair  face  of  my  love.” 


THE  HOME  OF  MY  HEART. 


OT  here,  in  the  populous  town, 

In  the  play-house  or  mart, 

Not  here,  in  the  ways  gray  and  brown, 
But  afar  on  the  green-swelling  down, 

Is  the  home  of  my  heart. 

There  the  hillside  slopes  down  to  a dell, 
Whence  a streamlet  has  start, 

There  are  wood  and  sweet  grass  on  the  swell, 
And  the  south  winds  and  west  know  it  well; 
There’s  the  home  of  my  heart. 

There’s  a cottage  o’ershadowed  by  leaves, 
Growing  fairer  than  art, 

Where,  under  the  low  sloping  eaves 
No  false  hand  the  swallow  bereaves; 

’Tis  the  home  of  my  heart. 


And  there  on  the  slant  of  the  lea, 

Where  the  trees  stand  apart, 

Over  grassland  and  woodland  may  be 
You  will  catch  the  faint  gleam  of  the  sea 
From  the  home  of  my  heart. 

And  there,  in  the  rapturous  spring, 

When  the  morning  rays  dart 
O’er  the  plain,  and  the  morning  birds  sing. 
You  may  see  the  most  beautiful  thing 
In  the  home  of  my  heart. 

For  there  at  the  casement  above, 

Where  the  rose-bushes  part, 

Will  blush  the  fair  face  of  my  love  : — 

Ah,  yes ! it  is  this  that  will  prove 
’Tis  the  home  of  my  heart. 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon* 


202 


EXILE  OF  THE  A CAD  IANS. 


EXILE  OF  THE  ACADIANS. 

LEASANTLY  rose  one 
morn  the  sun  on  the 
village  of  Grand- Pre. 

Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the 
soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin 
of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering 
\ shadows,  were  riding  at  anchor. 

Jjfe  had  long  been  astir  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  clamorous  labor 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at 
the  golden  gates  of  the  morning. 


Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all 
sounds  of  labor  were  silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  peo- 
ple; and  noisy  groups  at  the 
house-doors 

Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced 
and  gossipped  together. 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all 
were  welcomed  and  feasted  ; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who 
lived  like  brothers  together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and 
what  one  had  was  another’s. 


Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous 
air  of  the  orchard, 

Bending  with  golden  fruit,  was  spread 
the  feast  of  betrothal. 

Where  in  the  shade  of  the  porch 
were  the  priest  and  the  notary 
seated  ; 

Where  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy 
Basil  the  blacksmith. 


Now  from  the  country  around,  from 
the  farms  and  the  neighboring 
hamlets, 

Come  in  their  holiday  dresses  the 
blithe  Acadian  peasants. 

Many  a glad  good-morrow  and  jo- 
cund laugh  from  the  young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up 
from  the  numerous  meadows 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but 
the  track  of  wheels  in  the  green- 
sward, 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and 
joined,  or  passed  on  the  high- 
way. 


Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by 
the  cider-press  and  the  bee- 
hives, 

Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with 

the  gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 

Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played 
on  his  snow-white 

Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind;  and  the  jolly  face  of 
the  fiddler 

Glowed  like  a living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown 
from  the  embers. 


Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the  music. 
Merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard  trees  and  down  the  path  to  the 
meadows ; 

Old  folks  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled 
among  them. 


EXILE  OF  THE  ACADIANS. 


So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo  ! with  a sum- 
mons sonorous 

Sounded  the  bell  from  /its  tower,  and  over  the  mead- 
ows a drum  beat. 

Thronged  ere  long  was  the  church  with  men.  With- 
out, in  the  churchyard, 

Waited  the  women.  They  stood  by  the  graves,  and 
hung  on  the  head-stones 

Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from 
the  forest. 

Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching 
proudly  among  them 

Entered  the  sacred  portal.  With  loud  and  dissonant 
clangor 

Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling 
and  casement — 

Echoed  a moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous 
portal 

Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of 
the  soldiers, 

Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the 
steps  of  the  altar, 

Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal 
commission. 

“ You  are  convened  this  day,”  he  said,  “by  his  Maj- 
esty’s orders. 

Clement  and  kind  has  he  been ; but  how  you  have 
answered  his  kindness, 

Let  your  own  hearts  reply  ! To  my  natural  make  and 
my  temper 

Painful  the  task  is  I do,  which  to  you  I know  must 
be  grievous. 

Yet  must  I bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  wilj  of  our 
monarch ; 

Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and  cattle 
of  all  kinds 

Forfeited  be  to  the  crown ; and  that  you  yourselves 
from  this  province 

Be  transported  to  other  lands.  God  grant  you  may 
dwell  there  , 

Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a happy  and  peaceable  peo- 
ple ! 

Prisoners  now  I declare  you ; for  such  is  his  Majesty’s 
pleasure ! ” 

As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of 
summer, 

Suddenly  gathers  a storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the 
hailstones 

Beats  down  the  farmer’s  corn  in  the  field  and  shatters 
his  windows, 

Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch 
from  the  house-roofs, 

Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  in- 
closures ; 

So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words 
of  the  speaker. 

Silent  a moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and 
then  rose 

Louder  and  ever  louder  a wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to 
the  doorway. 


203 


Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape ; and  cries  and  fierce 
imprecations 

Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer;  and  high  o’er  the 
heads  of  the  others 

Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the 
blacksmith, 

As,  on  a stormy  sea,  a spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion ; and 
wildly  he  shouted — 

“ Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  ! we  never  have 
sworn  them  allegiance ! 

Death  to'  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our 
homes  and  our  harvests ! ” 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand 
of  a soldier 

Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down- 
to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  conten- 
tion, 

Lo ! the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Fe- 
lician 

Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with-  a gesture  he  awed 
into  silence 

All  that  clamorous  throng;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his- 
people ; 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ; in  accents  measured 
and  mournful 

Spake,  as,  after  the  tocsin’s  alarum,  distinctly  the  clock 
strikes. 

“ What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ? what  mad- 
ness has  seized  you  ? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I labored  among  you,  and 
taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another! 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers 
and  privations? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and 
fprgiveness  ? 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  would 
you  profane  it 

Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with 
hatred  ? ” . 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts- 
of  his  people 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  that  pas- 
sionate outbreak; 

And  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  “ O Father, 
forgive  them ! ” 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ; and  now  on  the 
fifth  day 

Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the 
farmhouse; 

Soon  o’er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful 
procession, 

Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the 
Acadian  women. 


204 


EXILE  OF  THE  ACADIANS. 


Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to 
the  seashore, 

Causing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their 
dwellings, 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and 
the  woodland. 

Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on 
the  oxen, 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  fragments 
of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  they  hurried ; and  there 
on  the  sea-beach 

Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the 
peasants. 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the 
boats  ply ; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the 
village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his 
setting, 

Echoing  far  o’er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from 
the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On  a sud- 
den the  church-doors 

Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in 
gloomy  procession 

Followed  the  long*-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Acadian 
farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes 
and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary 
and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  de- 
scended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives 
and  their  daughters. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  moved  on  that  mourn- 
ful procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of 
embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats;  and  in  the  confusion 

Wives  were  tom  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers,  too 
late,  saw  their  children 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms  with  wildest 
entreaties. 

Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down, 
and  the  twilight 

Deepened  and  darkened  around;  and  in  haste  the  re- 
fluent ocean 

Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 
sand-beach 

Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  slippery 
sea-weed. 

Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and 
the  wagons, 

Like  to  a gypsy  camp,  or  a leaguer  after  a battle, 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near 
them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian 
farmers.  I 


Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing 
ocean, 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and 
leaving 

Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the 
sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned  from 
their  pastures ; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk 
from  their  udders; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars 
of  the  farm-yard, 

Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand 
of  the  milkmaid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets;  from  the  church  no 
Angelus  sounded, 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights 
from  the  windows. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a light,  as  in  autumn 
the  blood-red 

Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o’er  the 
homon 

Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain 
and  meadow, 

Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge 
shadows  together. 

Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of 
the  village, 

Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that 
lay  in  the  roadstead. 

Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of  flame 
were 

Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the 
quivering  hands  of  a martyr. 

Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning 
thatch,  and,  uplifting, 

Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a 
hundred  house-tops 

Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  inter- 
mingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the  shore 
and  on  shipboard. 

Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their 
anguish, 

“ We  shall  no  more  behold  our  homes  in  the  village 
of  Grand- Pre  ! ” 

Loud  on  a sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm 
yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned ; and  anon  the  lowing 
of  cattle 

Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs 
interrupted. 

Then  rose  a sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleep- 
ing encampments 

Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the  Ne- 
braska, 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the 
speed  of  the  whirlwind, 

Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  tha 
river. 


THE  HOUSE’S  DARLING . 


205 


Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  that  night,  as  the  herds 
and  the  horses 

Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly  rushed 
o’er  the  meadows. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  a service  of 
sorrow, 

Lo ! with  a mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a vast 
congregation, 

St»jmnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with 
the  dirges. 


’Twas  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of 
the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  day,  came  heaving  and  hurry- 
ing landward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of 
embarking ; 

And  with  the  ebb  of  that  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of 
the  harbor, 

Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore  and  the 
village  in  ruins. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 

THER  had  a love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 
ould  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a married  lady, 

And  a moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled. 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 

And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a shutter, 

Like  a well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


THE  HOUSE’S  DARLING. 

SWEET,  shy  girl,  with  roses  in  her  heart. 
And  love-light  in  her  face,  like  those  up- 
grown  ; 

Full  of  still  dreams  and  thoughts  that, 
dream-like,  start 
From  fits  of  solitude  when  not  alone ! 

Gay  dancer  over  thresholds  of  bright  days. 

Tears  quick  lo  her  eyes  as  laughter  to  her  lips  : 

A game  of  hide-and-seek  with  Time  she  plays, 

Time  hiding  his  eyes  from  hers  in  bright 
eclipse. 

O gentle-souled  ! — how  dear  and  good  she  is, 

Blessed  by  soft  dews  of  happiness  and  love  ; 
Cradled  in  tenderest  arms  ! Her  mother’s  kiss 

Seals  all  her  good-night  prayers.  Her  father’s 
smile 

Brightens  her  mornings.  Through  the  Earth  shall 
move 

Her  child-sweet  soul,  not  far  from  heaver  the 
while  1 

John  James  Piatt- 


20  6 


GETTING  THE  RIGHT  START. 


GETTING  THE  RIGHT  START. 

HE  first  great  lesson  a young  man  should 
learn  is  that  he  knows  nothing;  and 
that  the  earlier  and  more  thoroughly 
this  lesson  is  learned  the  better  it  will 
be  for  his  peace  of  mind  and  his  success  in  life. 
A young  man  bred  at  home  and  growing  up  in  the 
light  of  parental  admiration  and  fraternal  pride  can- 
not readily  understand  how  it  is  that  every  one  else 
can  be  his  equal  in  talent  and  acquisition.  If  bred 
in  the  country,  he  seeks  the  life  of  the  town,  where 
he  will  very  early  obtain  an  idea  of  his  insignifi- 
cance. 

This  is  a critical  period  in  his  history.  The  re- 
sult of  his  reasoning  will  decide  his  fate.  If  at  this 
time  he  thoroughly  comprehend  and  in  his  soul  ad- 
mit and  accept  the  fact  that  he  knows  nothing  and  is 
nothing ; if  he  bow  to  the  conviction  that  his  mind 
and  his  person  are  but  ciphers,  and  that  whatever 
he  is  to  be  and  is  to  win  must  be  achieved  by  hard 
work,  there  is  abundant  hope  of  him. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  a huge  self-conceit  still  hold 
possession  of  him  and  he  straighten  stiffly  up  to  the 
assertion  of  his  old  and  valueless  self,  or  if  he  sink  discouraged  upon  the  threshold 
of  a life  of  fierce  competitions  and  more  manly  emulations,  he  might  as  well  be  a 
dead  man.  The  world  has  no  use  for  such  a man,  and  he  has  only  to  retire  or  be 
trodden  upon. 

When  a young  man  has  thoroughly  comprehended  the  fact  that  he  knows  nothing, 
and  that  intrinsically  he  is  of  but  little  value,  the  next  thing  for  him  to  learn  is  that 
the  world  cares  nothing  for  him — that  he  is  the  subject  of  no  man’s  overwhelming 
admiration  and  esteem — that  he  must  take  care  of  himself. 

If  he  be  a stranger,  he  will  find  every  man  busy  with  his  own  affairs,  and  none  to 
look  after  him.  He  will  not  be  noticed  until  he  becomes  noticeable,  and  he  will  not 
become  noticeable  until  he  does  something  to  prove  that  he  has  an  absolute  value 
in  society.  No  letter  of  recommendation  will  give  him  this,  or  ought  to  give  him 
this.  No  family  connection  will  give  him  this,  except  among  those  few  who  think 
more  of  blood  than  brains. 

Society  demands  that  a young  man  shall  be  somebody,  not  only,  but  that  he  shall 
prove  his  right  to  the  title  ; and  it  has  a right  to  demand  this.  Society  will  not  take 
this  matter  upon  trust,  at  least  not  for  a long  time ; for  it  has  been  cheated  too  fre- 
quently. Society  is  not  very  particular  what  a man  does,  so  that  it  prove  him  to  be 


a man 


then  it  will  bow  to  him  and  make  room  for  him. 


GETTING  THE  RIGHT  START. 


* 20 7 


There  is  no  surer  sign  of  an  unmanly  and  cowardly  spirit  than  a vague  desire  for 
'help,  a wish  to  depend,  to  lean  upon  somebody  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the  industry 
of  others.  There  are  multitudes  of  young  men  who  indulge  in  dreams  of  help  from 
some  quarter  coming  in  at  a convenient  moment  to  enable  them  to  secure  the  success 
in  life  which  they  covet.  .The  vision  haunts  them  of  some  benevolent  old  gentleman 
with  a pocket  full  of  money,  a trunk  full  of  mortgages  and  stocks,  and  a mind 
remarkably  appreciative  of  merit  and  genius,  who  will,  perhaps,  give  or  lend  them 
from  ten  to  twenty  thousand  dollars,  with  which  they  will  commence  and  go  on 
swimmingly. 

To  me  one  of  the  most  disgusting  sights  in  the  world  is  that  of  a young  man  with 
healthy  blood,  broad  shoulders  and  a hundred  and  fifty  pounds  more  or  less,  of 
■good  bone  and  muscle,  standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  longing  for  help.  I 
admit  that  there  are  positions  in  which  the  most  independent  spirit  may  accept  of 
assistance — may,  in  fact,  as  a choice  of  evils,  desire  it ; but  for  a man  who  is  able  to 
help  himself,  to  desire  the  help  of  others  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  plans  of  life, 
is  positive  proof  that  he  has  received  a most  unfortunate  training  or  that  there  is  a 
leaven  of  meanness  in  his  composition  that  should  make  him  shudder. 

When,  therefore,  a young  man  has  ascertained  and  fully  received  the  fact  that  he 
■does  not  know  anything,  that  the  world  does  not  care  anything  about  him,  that  what 
he  wins  must  be  won  by  his  own  brain  and  brawn,  and  that  while  he  holds  in  his 
own  hands  the  means  of  gaining  his  own  livelihood  and  the  objects  of  his  life,  he 
■cannot  receive  assistance  without  compromising  his  self-respect  and  selling  his  free- 
dom, he  is  in  a fair  position  for  beginning  life.  When  a young  man  becomes  aware 
that  only  by  his  own  efforts  can  he  rise  into  companionship  and  competition  with 
the  sharp,  strong,  and  well-drilled  minds  around  him,  he  is  ready  for  work,  and  not 
before. 

The  next  lesson  is  that  of  patience,  thoroughness  of  preparation,  and  contentment 
with  the  regular  channels  of  business  effort  and  enterprise.  This  is,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  most  difficult  to  learn  of  all  the  lessons  of  life.  It  is  natural  for  the  mind  to  reach 
out  eagerly  for  immediate  results. 

As  manhood  dawns,  and  the  young  man  catches  in  its  first  light  the  pinnacles  of 
realized  dreams,  the  golden  domes  of  high  possibilities,  and  the  purpling  hills  of 
great  delights,  and  then  looks  down  upon  the  narrow,  sinuous,  long,  and  dusty  path 
by  which  others  have  reached  them,  he  is  apt  to  be  disgusted  with  the  passage  and 
to  seek  for  success  through  broader  channels,  by  quicker  means.  Beginning  at  the 
very  foot  of  the  hill  and  working  slowly  to  the  top  seems  a very  discouraging  pro- 
cess; and  precisely  at  this  point  have  thousands  of  young  men  made  shipwreck  of 
their  lives. 

Let  this  be  understood,  then,  at  starting;  that  the  patient  conquest  of  difficul- 
ties which  rise  in  the  regular  and  legitimate  channels  of  business  and  enterprise  is 
not  only  essential  in  securing  the  successes  which  you  seek,  but  it  is  essential  to 
that  preparation  of  your  mind  requisite  for  the  enjoyment  of  your  successes  and  for 


208 


ON  RECEIPT  OF  HIS  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 


retaining  them  when  gained.  It  is  the  general  rule  of  Providence,  the  world  over 
and  in  all  time,  that  unearned  success  is  a curse.  It  is  the  rule  of  Providence  that 
the  process  of  earning  success  shall  be  the  preparation  for  its  conservation  and 
enjoyment. 

So,  day  by  day,  and  week  by  week ; so,  month  after  month,  and  year  after  year, 
work  on,  and  in  that  process  gain  strength  and  symmetry,  and  nerve  and  knowledge, 
that  when  success,  patiently  and  bravely  worked  for,  shall  come,  it  may  find  you 
prepared  to  receive  it  and  keep  it.  The  development  which  you  will  get  in  this 
brave  and  patient  labor  will  prove  itself  in  the  end  the  most  valuable  of  yoijr  suc- 
cesses. It  will  help  to  make  a man  of  you.  It  will  give  you  power  and  self-reliance. 
It  will  give  you  not  only  self-respect,  but  the  respect  of  your  fellows  and  the  public* 

J.  G.  Holland. 

ON  RECEIPT  OF  HIS  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 


THAT  those  lips  had  lan- 
guage ! Life  has  pass’d 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I 
heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy 
own  sweet  smile  I see, 

The  same  that  oft  in  child- 
hood solaced  me; 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  dis- 
tinct they  say, 

“ Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase 
all  thy  fears  away  ! ” 

The  meek  intelligence  of 
those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  im- 
mortalize, 

The  art  that  baffles  Time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 

Who  bidd’st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief ; 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!  when  I learn’ d that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed  ? 

Hover’d  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son, 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun  ? 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a kiss; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! it  answers — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  toll’d  on  thy  burial  day, 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown. 

May  I but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 


Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I wish’d,  I long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow,  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I learn’ d at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But,  though  I less  deplore  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more, 

Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 

Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp’d 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 

’Tis  now  become  a history  little  known, 

That  once  we  call’d  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  ! But  the  record  fair, 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a storm,  that  has  effaced 
A thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber,  made 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow’d 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow’d; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne’er  roughen’d  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory’s  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn’d  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours. 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued  flowers 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I prick’d  them  into  paper  with  a pin, 


WHAT  DOES  LITTLE  BIRDIE  SAY?  -O9 


(And  thuu  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  soitiy  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile,) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish  them  here  ? 
I would  not  trust  my  heart ; — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I might. — 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a gallant  bark  from  Albion’s  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather’d  and  the  ocean  cross’d) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven’ d isle, 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reach’d  the  shore, 
“ Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar;  ” 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor’d  by  thy  side. 


But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress’d — • 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss’d, 
Sails  ripp’d,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous  course 
Yet  O the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not,  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth, 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 

The  son  of  parents  pass’d  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell ! — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wish’d  is  done. 

By  contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again; 

To  have  renew’d  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

Wm.  Cowper 


WHAT  DOES  LITTLE  BIRDIE  SAY? 


HAT  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 

Birdie,  rest  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a little  longer, 

Then  she  flies  away. 


14 


What  does  little  baby  say, 

In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 

If  she  sleeps  a little  longer, 

Baby  too  shall  fly  away. — Tennysoh 


2 10 


THE  DEVIL'S  DREAM  ON  MOUNT  AKSBECK. 


THE  DEVIL’S  DREAM  ON  MOUNT  AKSBECK. 


EYOND  the  north  where  Ural  hills  from 
polar  tempests  run, 

A glow  went  forth  at  midnight  hour  as  of 
unwonted  sun ; 

Upon  the  north  at  midnight  hour  a mighty  noise  was 
heard, 

As  if  with  all  his  trampling  waves  the  ocean  were  un- 
barred ; 

And  high  a grizzly  terror  hung,  upstarting  from  below, 

Like  fiery  arrow  shot  aloft  from  some  unmeasured 
bow. 

’Twas  not  the  obedient  seraph’s  form  that  burns  be- 
fore the  throne, 

Whose  feathers  are  the  pointed  flames  that  tremble  to 
be  gone : 

With  twists  of  faded  glory  mixed,  grim  shadows  wove 
his  wing; 

An  aspect  like  the  hurrying  storm  proclaimed  the  in- 
fernal king. 

And  up  he  went,  from  native  might,  or  holy  sufferance 
given, 

As  if  to  strike  the  starry  boss  of  the  high  and  vaulted 
heaven. 

Aloft  he  turned  in  middle  air  like  falcon  for  his  prey, 

And  bowed  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  as  if  to  flee 
away ; 

Till  broke  a cloud — a phantom  host,  like  glimpses  of 
a dream, 

Sowing  the  Syrian  wilderness  with  many  a restless 
gleam : 

He  knew  the  flowing  chivalry,  the  swart  and  turbaned 
train, 

That  far  had  pushed  the  Moslem  faith,  and  peopled 
well  his  reign  : 

With  stooping  pinion  that  outflew  the  prophet’s  winged 
steed, 

In  pride  throughout  the  desert  bounds  he  led  the 
phantom  speed  ; 

But  prouder  yet  he  turned  alone  and  stood  on  Tabor 
hill, 

With  scorn  as  if  the  Arab  swords  had  little  helped  his 
will  : 

With  scorn  he  looked  to  west  away,  and  left  their 
train  to  die, 

Like  a thing  that  had  awaked  to  life  from  the  gleam- 
ing of  his  eye. 

What  hill  is  like  to  Tabor  hill  in  beauty  and  in  fame  ? 

There  in  the  sad  days  of  his  flesh  o’er  Christ  a glory 
came ; 

And  light  outflowed  Him  like  a sea,  and  raised  his 
shining  brow ; 

And  the  Voice  went  forth  that  bade  all  worlds  to  God’s 
Beloved  bow. 

One  thought  of  this  came  o’er  the  fiend,  and  raised 
his  startled  form  ; 

And  up  ne  drew  his  swelling  skirts  as  if  to  meet  the 
storm. 


With  wing  that  stripped  the  dews  and  birds  from  off 
the  boughs  of  night, 

Down  over  Tabor’s  trees  he  whirled  his  fierce  dis- 
tempered flight; 

And  westward  o’er  the  shadowy  earth  he  tracked  his 
earnest  way,  • t 

Till  o’er  him  shone  the  utmost  stars  that  hem  the' 
skirts  of  day; 

Then  higher  ’neath  the  sun  he  flew  above  all  mortal 
ken, 

Yet  looked  what  he  might  see  on  earth  to  raise  his 
pride  again. 

He  saw  a form  of  Africa  low  sitting  in  the  dust ; 

The  feet  were  chained,  and  sorrow  thrilled  through- 
out the  sable  bust. 

The  idol,  and  the  idol’s  priest  he  hailed  upon  the  earth, 

And  every  slavery  that  brings  wild  passions  to  the 
birth. 

All  forms  of  human  wickedness  were  pillars  of  his 
fame, 

All  sounds  of  human  misery  his  kingdom’s  loud  ac- 
claim. 

Exulting  o’er  the  rounded  earth  again  he  rode  with 
night, 

Till,  sailing  o’er  the  untrodden  top  of  Aksbeck  high 
and  white, 

He  closed  at  once  his  weary  wings,  and  touched  the 
shining  hill ; 

For  less  his  flight  was  easy  strength  than  proud  un- 
conquered will: 

For  sin  had  dulled  his  native  strength,  and  spoilt  the 
holy  law 

Of  impulse  whence  the  archangels  their  earnest  being 
draw. 

And  sin  had  drunk  his  brightness,  since  his  heavenly 
days  went  by  : 

Shadows  of  care  and  sorrow  dwelt  in  his  proud  im- 
mortal eye ; 

Like  little  sparry  pools  that  glimpse  ’midst  murk  and 
haggard  rocks, 

Quick  fitful  gleams  came  o’er  his  cheek  black  with 
the  thunder-strokes; 

Like  coast  of  lurid  darkness  were  his  forehead’s  shade 
and  light, 

Lit  by  some  far  volcanic  fire,  and  strewed  with  wrecks 
of  night. 

Like  hovering  bird  that  fears  the  snare,  or  like  the 
startled  sleep 

That  ne’er  its  couch  on  eyelids  of  blood-guilty  men 
will  keep, 

His  ruffled  form  that  trembled  much,  his  swarthy  soles 
un  blest, 

As  if  impatient  to  be  gone,  still  hovering  could  not 
rest ; 

Still  looking  up  unto  the  moon  clear  set  above  his 
head, 

Like  mineral  hill  where  gold  grows  ripe,  sore  gleams 
his  forehead  shed. 


‘WORD  THE  NORTH  ¥MERE  URSL  HILLS  FROM  POLIR  TEMPESTS  RUN," 


(211) 


212 


THE  BEVIES  D RE  A 31  ON  MOUNT  AKSBECK. 


Winds  rose : from  ’neath  his  settling  feet  were  driven 
great  drifts  of  snow  ; 

Like  hoary  hair  from  off  his  head  did  white  clouds 
streaming  go ; 

The  gulfy  pinewoods  far  beneath  roared  surging  like 
a sea; 

From  out  their  lairs  the  striding  wolves  came  howling 
awfully. 

But  now  upon  an  ice-glazed  rock,  severely  blue,  he 
leant, 

His  spirit  by  the  storm  composed  that  round  about  him 
went. 

In  nature’s  joy  he  felt  fresh  night  blow  on  his  fiery 
scars ; 

In  proud  regret  he  fought  anew  his  early  hapless 
wars ; 

From  human  misery  lately  seen,  his  malice  yet  would 
draw 

A hope  to  blast  one  plan  of  God,  and  check  sweet 
mercy’s  law ; 

An  endless  line  of  future  years  was  stern  despair’s 
control : 

And  deep  these  master  passions  wove  the  tempest  of 
his  soul. 

Oh,  for  the  form  in  heaven  that  bore  the  morn  upon 
his  brow ! 

Now,  run  to  worse  than  mortal  dross,  that  Lucifer 
must  bow. 

And  o’er  him  rose,  from  passion’s  strife,  like  spray- 
cloud  from  the  deep, 

A slumber ; not  the  cherub’s  soft  and  gauzy  veil  of 
sleep, 

But  like  noon’s  breathless  thunder-cloud,  of  sultry 
smothered  gleam. 

And  God  was  still  against  his  soul  to  plague  him  with 
a dream. 

In  vision  he  was  borne  away,  where  Lethe’s  slippery 
wave 

Creeps  like  a black  and  shining  snake  into  a silent 
cave — 

A place  of  still  and  pictured  life : its  roof  was  ebon  air, 

And  blasted  as  with  dim  eclipse  the  sun  and  moon 
were  there : 

It  seemed  the  grave  of  man’s  lost  world — of  beauty 
caught  by  blight. 

The  dreamer  knew  the  work  he  marred,  and  felt  a 
fiend’s  delight. 

The  lofty  cedar  on  the  hills  by  viewless  storms  was 
swung, 

And  high  the  thunder-fires  of  heaven  among  its 
branches  hung; 

In  drowsy  heaps  of  feathers  sunk,  all  fowls  that  fly 
were  there, 

The  head  forever  ’neath  the  wing,  no  more  to  rise  in 
air ; 

Front  woods  the  forms  of  lions  glared,  and  hasty  tigers 
broke ; 

The  harnessed  steed  lay  in  his  pains,  the  heifer  ’neath 
the  yoke. 


All  creatures  once  of  earth  are  there,  all  sealed  with 
death’s  pale  seal 

On  Lethe’s  shore : dull  sliding  by  her  sleepy  waters 
steal. 

O’er  cities  of  imperial  name,  and  styled,  of  endless 
sway, 

The  silent  river  slowly  creeps,  and  licks  them  all  away. 

This  is  the  place  of  God’s  first  wrath — the  mute  crea- 
tion’s fall — 

Earth  marred — the  woes  of  lower  life — oblivion  over 
all. 

Small  joy  to  him  who  marred  our  world ! for  he  is 
hurried  on ; 

Made,  even  in  dreams,  to  dread  that  place  where  yet 
he  boasts  his  throne: 

Through  portals  driven,  a horrid  pile  of  grim  and 
hollow  bars, 

Wherein  clear  spirits  of  tinctured  life  career  in  prisoned 
wars, 

Down  on  the  second  lake  he’s  bowed,  where  final  fate 
is  wrought, 

In  meshes  of  eternal  fire,  o’er  beings  of  moral  thought- 

Vast  rose  abrupt  (hell’s  throne)  a rock  dusk-red  of 
mineral  glow, 

Its  tortured  summit  hid  in  smoke,  from  out  the  gulf 
below, 

Whose  fretted  surf  of  gleaming  wave  still  broke  against 
its  sides. 

Serpents  of  sorrow,  spun  from  out  the  lashings  of  those 
tides, 

Sprung  disengaged,  and  darted  up  that  damned  cliff 
amain, 

Their  bellies  skinned  with  glossy  fire  : but  none  came- 
down  again. 

Far  off,  upon  the  fire-burnt  coast,  some  naked  beings- 
stood ; 

And  o’er  them,  like  a stream  of  mist,  the  wrath  was- 
seen  to  brood. 

At  half-way  distance  stood,  with  head  beneath  his 
trembling  wing, 

An  angel  shape,  intent  to  shield  his  special  suffering. 

And  nearer,  as  if  overhead,  were  voices  heard  to 
break ; 

Yet  were  they  cries  of  souls  that  lived  beneath  the 
weltering  lake. 

And  ever,  as  with  grizzly  gleam  the  crested  waves- 
came  on, 

Up  rose  a melancholy  form  with  short  impatient  moan,. 

Whose  eyes  like  living  jewels  shone,  clear-purged  by 
the  flame; 

And  sore  the  salted  fires  had  washed  the  thin  immortal 
frame ; 

And  backward,  in  sore  agony,  the  being  stripped  its 
locks, 

As  a maiden  in  her  beauty’s  pride  her  claspdd  tresses 
strokes. 

High  tumbling  hills  of  glossy  ore  reeled  in  the  yellow 
smoke, 

As  shaded  round  the  uneasy  land  their  sultry  summits 
broke. 


THE  BEVIES  DREAM  ON  MOUNT  AKSBECK. 


Above  them  lightnings  to  and  fro  ran  crossing  ever- 
more, 

Till,  like  a red  bewildered  map,  the  skies  were  scrib- 
bled o’er. 

High  in  the  unseen  cupola  o’er  all  were  ever  heard 

The  mustering  stores  of  wrath  that  fast  their  coming 
forms  prepared. 

Wo,  wo  to  him  whose  wickedness  first  dug  this  glaring 
pit ! 

For  this  new  terrors  in  his  soul  by  God  shall  yet  be  lit. 

In  vision  still  to  plague  his  heart,  the  fiend  is  stormed 
away, 

In  dreadful  emblem  to  behold  what  waits  his  future 
day ; 

Away  beyond  the  thundering  bounds  of  that  tre- 
mendous lake, 

Through  dim  bewildered  shadows  which  no  living 
semblance  take. 

O’er  soft  and  unsubstantial  shades  which  towering 
visions  seem, 

Through  kingdoms  of  forlorn  repose,  went  on  the 
hurrying  dream; 

Till  down  where  feet  of  hills  might  be,  he  by  a lake 
was  stayed 

Of  still  red  fire — a molten  plate  of  terror  unallayed — 

A mirror  where  Jehovah’s  wrath,  in  majesty  alone, 

Comes  in  the  night  of  worlds  to  see  its  armor  girded 
on. 

The  awful  walls  of  shadows  round  might  dusky  moun- 
tains seem, 

But  never  holy  light  hath  touched  an  outline  with  its 
gleam ; 

’Tis  but  the  eye’s  bewildered  sense  that  fain  would 
rest  on  form, 

And  make  night’s  thick  blind  presence  to  created 
shapes  conform. 

No  stone  is  moved  on  mountain  here  by  creeping 
creature  crossed  ; 

No  lonely  harper  comes  to  harp  upon  this  fiery  coast. 

Here  all  is  solemn  idleness : no  music  here,  no  jars, 

Where  silence  guards  the  coast,  e’er  thrill  her  ever- 
lasting bars. 

No  sun  here  shines  on  wanton  isles ; but  o’er  the 
burning  sheet 

A rim  of  restless  halo  shakes,  which  marks  the  internal 
heat, 

As,  in  the  days  of  beauteous  earth,  we  see  with  dazzled 
sight 

The  red  and  setting  sun  o’erflow  with  rings  of  welling 
light. 

Oh ! here  in  dread  abeyance  lurks  of  uncreated  things 

The  last  lake  of  God’s  wrath,  where  He  his  first  great 
enemy  brings. 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  gulf  the  fiend  was  made  to 
stay, 

Till,  as  it  seemed,  ten  thousand  years  had  o’er  him 
rolled  away : 

In  dreams  he  had  extended  life  to  bear  the  fiery  space  ; 

But  all  was  passive,  dull,  and  stern  within  his  dwell- 
ing-place. 


Oh,  for  a blast  of  tenfold  ire  to  rouse  the  giant  surge, 

Him  from  that  flat  fixed  lethargy  impetuously  to  urge  ! 

Let  him  but  rise,  but  ride  upon  the  tempest-crested 
wave 

Of  fire  enridged  tumultuously,  each  angry  thing  he’d 
brave  ! 

The  strokes  of  wrath — thick  let  them  fall ! A speed 
so  glorious  dread 

Would  bear  him  through;  the  clinging  pains  would 
strip  from  off  his  head. 

At  last,  from  out  the  barren  womb  of  many  thousand 
years, 

A sound  as  of  the  green-leaved  earth  his  thirsty  spirit 
cheers ; 

And,  oh,  a presence  soft  and  cool  came  o’er  his  burn- 
ing dream, 

A form  of  beauty  clad  about  with  fair  creation’s  beam  ; 

A low,  sweet  voice  was  in  his  ear,  thrilled  through 
his  inmost  soul, 

And  these  the  words  that  bowed  his  heart  with  softly 
sad  control : — 

“No  sister  e’er  hath  been  to  thee  with  pearly  eyes  of 
love ; 

No  mother  e’er  hath  wept  for  thee,  an  outcast  from 
above ; 

No  hand  hath  come  from  out  the  cloud  to  wash  thy 
scarred  face; 

No  voice  to  bid  thee  lie  in  peace,  the  noblest  of  thy 
race  : 

But  bow  thee  to  the  God  of  love,  and  all  shall  yet  be 
well, 

And  yet  in  days  of  holy  peace  and  love  thy  soul  shall 
dwell. 

“And  thou  shalt  dwell  ’mid  leaves  and  rills  far  from 
this  torrid  heat, 

And  I with  streams  of  cooling  milk  will  bathe  thy 
blistered  feet; 

And  when  the  troubled  tears  shall  start  to  think  of  all 
the  past, 

My  mouth  shall  haste  to  kiss  them  off,  and  chase  thy 
sorrows  fast. 

And  thou  shalt  walk  in  soft  white  light  with  kings 
and  priests  abroad, 

And  thou  shalt  summer  high  in  bliss  upon  the  hills  of 
God.” 

So  spake  the  unknown  cherub’s  voice,  of  sweet  affec- 
tion full, 

And  dewy  lips  the  dreamer  kissed  till  his  lava  breast 
was  cool. 

In  dread  revulsion  woke  the  fiend,  as  from  a mighty 
blow, 

And  sprung  a moment  on  his  wing  his  wonted  strength 
to  know  ; 

Like  ghosts  that  bend  and  glare  on  dark  and  scattered 
shores  of  night, 

So  turned  he  to  each  point  of  heaven  to  know  his 
dream  aright. 

The  vision  of  this  last  stern  lake,  oh,  how  it  plagued 
his  soul, 

Type  of  that  dull  eternity  which  on  him  soon  must 
roll, 


214 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  MAN. 


When  plans  and  issues  all  must  cease  which  earlier 
care  beguiled, 

And  never  era  more  shall  be  a landmark  on  the  wild : 

Nor  failure  nor  success  is  there,  nor  busy  hope  nor 
fame, 

But  passive  fixed  endurance,  all  eternal  and  the  same. 

So  knew  the  fiend,  and  fain  would  he  down  to  ob- 
livion go ; 

But  back  from  fear  his  spirit  proud,  recoiling  like  a 
bow, 

Sprung.  O’er  his  head  he  saw  the  heavens  upstayed 
bright  and  high ; 

The  planets,  undisturbed  by  him,  were  shining  in  the 
sky ; 

The  silent  magnanimity  of  nature  and  her  God 

With  anguish  smote  his  haughty  soul,  and  sent  his 
hell  abroad. 

His  pride  would  have  the  works  of  God  to  show  the 
signs  of  fear, 

And  flying  angels  to  and  fro  to  watch  his  dread  career ; 

But  all  was  calm : he  felt  night’s  dew  upon  his  sultry 
wing, 

And  gnashed  at  the  impartial  laws  of  nature’s  mighty 
king; 

Above  control,  or  show  of  hate,  they  no  exception 
made, 

But  gave  him  dew,  like  aged  thorn,  or  little  grassy 
blade. 

Terrible,  like  the  mustering  manes  of  the  cold  and 
curly  sea, 

So  grew  his  eye’s  enridged  gleams ; and  doubt  and 
danger  flee : 


Like  veteran  band’s  grim  valor  slow,  that  moves  to 
avenge  its  chief, 

Up  slowly  drew  the  fiend  his  form,  that  shook  with 
proud  relief : 

And  he  will  upward  go,  and  pluck  the  windows  of  high 
heaven, 

And  stir  their  calm  insulting  peace,  though  tenfold 
hell  be  given. 

Quick  as  the  levin,  whose  blue  forks  lick  up  the  life  of 
man, 

Aloft  he  sprung,  and  through  his  wings  the  piercing 
north-wind  ran ; 

Till,  like  a glimmering  lamp  that’s  lit  in  lazar-house 
by  night, 

To  see  what  mean  the^sick  man’s  cries,  and  set  his  bed 
aright, 

Which  in  the  damp  and  sickly  air  the  sputtering 
shadows  mar, 

So  gathered  darkness  high  the  fiend,  till  swallowed 
like  a star. 

What  judgment  from  the  tempted  heavens  shall  on  his 
head  go  forth  ? 

Down  headlong  through  the  firmament  he  fell  upon 
the  north. 

The  stars  are  up  untroubled  all  in  the  lofty  fields  of 
air : 

The  will  of  God’s  enough,  without  his  red  right  arm 
made  bare, 

’Twas  He  that  gave  the  fiend  a space,  to  prove  him 
still  the  same, 

Then  bade  wild  hell,  with  hideous  laugh,  be  stirred 
her  prey  to  claim. 

Thomas  Aird. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  MAN. 

S the  member  of  an  infant  empire,  as  a philanthropist  by  character,  and,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  the  expression,  as  a citizen  of  the  great  republic  of  Humanity 
at  large,  I cannot  help  turning  my  attention  sometimes  to  this  subject,  how 
mankind  may  be  connected , like  one  great  family , in  Jraternal  ties.  I indulge  a fond, 
"perhaps  an  enthusiastic  idea,  that  as  the  world  is  evidently  much  less  barbarous  than 
it  has  been,  its  melioration  must  still  be  progressive;  that  nations  are  becoming  more 
humanized  in  their  policy ; that  the  subjects  of  ambition  and  causes  for  hostility  are 
daily  diminishing;  and,  in  fine,  that  the  period  is  not  very  remote  when  the  benefits 
of  a liberal  and  free  commerce  will  pretty  generally  succeed  to  the  devastations  and 
horrors  of  war.  George  Washington. 


A NEW  TEN  COMMANDMENTS. 

L Never  put  off  till  to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day. 

2.  Never  trouble  another  for  what  you  can  do  yourself. 

3.  Never  spend  your  money  before  you  have  it. 

4.  Never  buy  what  you  do  not  want  because  it  is  cheap ; it  will  be  dear  to  you. 


THE  OWL. 


215 

5.  Pride  costs  us  more  than  hunger,  thirst  and  cold. 

6.  We  never  repent  of  having  eaten  too  little. 

7.  Nothing  is  troublesome  that  we  do  willingly. 

8.  How  much  pain  have  cost  us  the  evils  that  have  never  happened. 

9.  Take  things  always  by  their  smooth  handle. 

10.  When  angry,  count  ten  before  you  speak ; if  very  angry,  an  hundred. 

Thomas  Jefferson. 


THE  OWL. 


N the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray 
tower, 

The  spectral  owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised,  in  the  sun- 
shine hour, 

But  at  dusk  he’s  abroad  and  well! 

Not  a bird  of  the  forest  e’er  mates  with 
him ; 

All  mock  him  out-right  by  day ; 

But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and 
dim, 

The  boldest  will  shrink  away ! 

O,  when  the  night  falls,  and  roosts  the 
fowl, 

Then,  then,  is  the  reign  of  the  horndd 
owl ! 


And  the  owl  hath  a bride,  who  is  fond  and 
bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood’s  deep  gloom ; 

And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moon- 
stone cold, 

She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ; 

Not  a feather  she  moves,  not  a carol  she 
sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still ; 

But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping 
wings, 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 

O,  when  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs 
do  howl, 

Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  horned 
owl ! 


Mourn  not  for  the  owl,  nor  his  gloomy 
plight ! 

The  owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 

If  a prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate, 

They  are  each  unto  each  a pride ; 

’Jhrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a strange,  uark  fate 
Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside. 

So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
SiDg,  ho ! for  the  reign  of  the  horned  owl ! 

We  know  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day, 

But  the  king  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown 
owl ! 


WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING,  MY  PRETTY 
MAID? 

HERE  are  you  frr ng,  my  pretty  maid?” 
“I  am  going  a- milking,”  she  said. 

“ May  I go  ,vith  you,  my  pretty  maid  ? ” 

“ You’re  kindly  welcome,  sir,”  she  said. 

‘ What  is  your  father,  my  pretty  5 ” 

* My  father’s  a farmer,  sir,”  she  saitt. 

; What  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid  ?** 

‘ My  face  is  my  forlime,  sir,”  she  said. 

‘ Then  I won’t  marry  you,  my  pretty  maid? 

‘ Nobody  asked  you,  sir,”  she  sr.i  1. 


Anonym* *',  js. 


Bryan  W.  Proctor  ( Barry  Cornwall ). 


THOSE  EVEN  IN  9 BELLS. 


2l6 


PROSE  AND  SONG. 

LOOKED  upon  a plain  of  green, 

That  some  one  called  the  land  of  prose, 
Where  many  living  things  were  seen, 

In  movement  or  repose. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 


HOSE  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells! 
How  many  a tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I heard  their  soothing  chime  ' 


I looked  upon  a stately  hill 

That  well  was  named  the  mount  of  song, 
Where  golden  shadows  dwelt  at  will 
The  woods  and  streams  among. 

But  most  this  fact  my  wonder  bred, 

Though  known  by  all  the  nobly  wise — 

It  was  the  mountain  streams  that  fed 
The  fair  green  plain’s  amenities. 

John  Stirling. 


Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away ; 

And  many  a heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 

And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  ’twill  be  when  I am  gone — 

That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on  ; 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells. 

And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Thomas  Moor*. 


GONE  WITH  A HANDSOMER  3IAN 


21 7 


GONE  WITH  A HANDSOMER  MAN. 


John. 

I’ve  worked  in  the  field  all  day,  a plowin’  the  “ stony 
streak ; ” 

I’ve  scolded  my  team  till  I’m  hoarse;  I’ve  tramped 
till  my  legs  are  weak ; 

I’ve  choked  a 
dozen  swears, 
(so’s  not  to 
tell  Jane  fibs,) 
When  the  plow- 
pint  struck  a 
stone  and 
the  handles 
punched  my 
ribs. 


Well  said  ! the  door  is  locked ! but  here  she’s  left 
the  key, 

Under  the  step,  in  a place  known  only  to  her  and 
me ; t 

I wonder  who’s  dyin’  or  dead,  that  she’s  hustled  off 
pell-mell ; 

But  here  on  the  table’s  a note,  and  probably  this  will 


Good  God ! my  wife  is  gone ! my  wife  is  gone 
astray ! 

The  letter  it  says,  “ Good-bye,  for  I’m  a going 
away ; 

I’ve  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I’ve 
been  true  ; 

But  I’m  going  away  to-day  with  a handsomer  man 
than  you.” 

A han’somer  man  than  me  ! Why  that  ain’t  much  to 
say ; 

There’s  han’somer  men  than  me  go  past  here  every 
day. 

There’s  han’somer  men  than  me — I ain’t  of  the  han’- 
some  kind; 

But  a lover? er  man  than  I was,  I guess  she’ll  never 
find. 


Curse  her ! curse  her ! I say,  and  give  my  curses 
wings ! 

May  the  words  of  love  I’ve  spoken  be  changed  to 
scorpion  stings ! 

Oh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my 
heart  of  doubt, 

And  now  with  a scratch  of  a pen,  she  lets  my  heart’s 
blood  out ! 


I’ve  put  my  team 
in  the  barn, 
and  rubbed 
their  sweaty 
coats ; 

I’ve  fed  ’em  a 
heap  of  hay 
and  half  a 
bushel  of 
oats; 

And  to  see  the 
way  they  eat 
makes  me  like 
eatin’  feel, 

And  Jane  wont 
say  to-night 
that  I don’t 
make  out  a 
meal. 


218 


GONE  WITH  A HANDSOMER  MAN. 


Curse  her ! curse  her ! say  I,  she’ll  some  time  rue 
this  day ; 

She’ll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a game  that  two 
can  play ; 

And  long  before  she  dies  she’ll  grieve  she  ever  was 
born, 

And  I’ll  plow  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down 
to  scorn. 

As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there’ll  come  a time 
when  she 

Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han’somer  man 
than  me ; 

And  there’ll  be  a time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do, 

That  she  who  is  false  to  one,  can  be  the  same  with 
two. 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when  her  eyes 
grow  dim, 

And  when  he  is  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him, 

She’ll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  coolly 
count  the  cost ; 

And  then  she’ll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she 
has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in 
her  mind, 

And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left 
behind ; 

And  maybe  she’ll  sometimes  long  for  me — for  me — 
but  no  ! 

I’ve  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I will  not  have 
it  so. 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin’  or 
other  she  had 

That  fastened  a man  to  her,  and  wasn’t  entirely  bad ; 

And  she  loved  me  a little,  I think,  although  it  didn’t 
last ; 

But  I mustn’t  think  of  these  things — I’ve  buried  ’em 
in  the  past. 

I’ll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a bad  matter 
worse  ; 

She’ll  have  trouble  enough ; she  shalL  not  have  my 
curse ; 

But  I’ll  live  a life  so  square — and  I well  know  that  I 
can — 

That  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went  with  that 
han’somer  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress  ! it  makes  my  poor  eyes 
blur ; 

It  seems  when  I look  at  that,  as  if  ’twas  holdin’  her. 

And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her 
week-day  hat, 

And  yonder’s  her  weddin’  gown : I wonder  she  didn’t 
take  that. 


’Twas  only  this  mornin’  she  came  and  called  me  her 
“ dearest  dear,” 

And  said  I was  makin’  for  her  a regular  paradise 
here  ; 

0 God!  if  you  want  a man  to  sense  the  pains  of  hell, 

Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  heaven  a 

spell ! 

Good-bye ! I wish  that  death  had  severed  us  two 
apart. 

You’ve  lost  a worshipper  here,  you’ve  crushed  a lovin* 
heart. 

I’ll  worship  no  woman  again;  but  I guess  I’ll  learn 
to  pray, 

And  kneel  a.s  you  used  to1  kneel,  before  you  run  away. 

And  if  I thought  I could  bring  my  words  on  Heaven 
to  bear, 

And  if  I thought  I had  some  little  influence  ihere, 

1 would  pray  that  I might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so„ 

As  happy  and  gay  as  I was  a half  an  hour  ago. 

Jane  ( entering ). 

Why,  John,  what  a litter  here  ! you’ve  thrown  things 
all  around  ! 

Come,  what’s  the  matter  now  ? and  what  have  you 
lost  or  found  ? 

And  here’s  my  father  here,  a waiting  for  supper,  too; 

I’ve  been  a riding  with  him — he’s  that  “handsomer 
man  than  you.” 

Ha ! ha ! Pa,  take  a seat,  while  I put  the  kettle  on, 

And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old 
John. 

Why,  John,  you  look  so  strange  ! come,  what  has 
crossed  your  track  ? 

I was  only  a joking  you  know,  I’m  willing  to  take  it 
back. 

John  {aside). 

Well,  now,  if  this  ain't  a joke,  with  rather  a bitter 
cream  ! 

It  seems  as  if  I’d  woke  from  a mighty  ticklish  dream; 

And  I think  she  “ smells  a rat,”  for  she  smiles  at  me 
so  queer, 

I hope  she  don’t ; good  gracious ! I hope  that  they 
didn’t  hear ! 

’Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives,  she  thought  I’d  un- 
derstand ! 

But  I’ll  never  break  sod  again  till  I get  the  lay  of  the 
land. 

But  one  thing’ssettled  with  me — to  appreciate  heavea- 
well, 

’Tis  good  for  a man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  o ? 
hell. 


Will  M.  Carleton 


THE  WONDERFUL  11  ONE-HOSS  SHAY: 


219 


THE  WONDERFUL  “ONE-HOSS  SHAY.” 


AVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 
hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a logical  way 
It  ran  a hundred  years  to  a day, 

And  then,  of  a sudden,  it — Ah,  but  stay, 

I’ll  tell  you  what  happened,  without  delay— 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I say  ? 

Seventeen,  hundred  and  fifty-five, 

Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive — 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive  > 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 

And  Braddock’s  army  was  done  so  brown. 

Left  without  a scalp  to  its  crown. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now,  in  building  of  chaises,  I tell  you  what. 

There  is  always,  somewhere , a weakest  spot — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace — lurking  still. 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without — ■ 

And  that’s  the  reason,  beyond  a doubt, 

A chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn’t  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore — (as  Deacons  do, 

With  an  “ I dew  vum  ” or  an  “ I tell  yeou  ”) — 

He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
*N’  the  keounty  ’n’  all  the  kentry  raoun’ ; 


It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn’  break  daown— 
“ Fur,”  said  the  Deacon,  “ ’t’s  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes’  place  mus’  stan’  the  strain, 

’N’  the  way  t’  fix  it,  uz  I maintain, 

Is  only  jest 

To  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.** 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  couldn’t  be  split,  nor  bent,  nor  broke— 

That  was  for  spokes,  and  floor,  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood,  to  make  the  thills; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  from  logs  from  the  “ Settler’s  ellum  — 
Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn’t  sell  ’em — 

Never  an  ax  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide, 

Found  in  the  pit  where  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  “ put  her  through.” 

“ There  ! ” said  the  Deacon,  “ naow  she’ll  dew  ! * 

Do  ! I tell  you,  I rather  guess 
She  was  a wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 


2 20 


*fRS.  CAUDLE  WANTS  SPUING  CLOTII IN. 


But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay. 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  Hundred — it  came,  and  found 
The  Deacon’s  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred,  increased  by  ten — 

“ Hahnsum  kerridge  ” they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came — 

Running  as  usual — much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrived ; 

And  then  came  fifty — and  Fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there’s  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I know,  but  a tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a moral  that  runs  at  large  : 

Take  it. — You’re  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November — the  Earthquake-day.— 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A general  flavor  of  mild  decay — 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn’t  be — for  the  Deacon’s  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  wasn’t  a chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills. 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor. 

And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring,  and  axle,  and  hub  encore. 


And  yet,  as  a whole , it  is  past  a doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out / 


First  of  November,  ’Fifty-five ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

“ Huddup!  ” said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday  text— 

Had  got  to  fifthly , and  stopped  perplexed 
And  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet’n’-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a shiver,  and  then  a thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a spill — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet’n’-house  clock- 
just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a heap  or  mound. 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you’re  not  a dunce. 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst — 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

Logic  is  Logic.  That’s  all  I say. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


MRS.  CAUDLE  WANTS  SPRING  CLOTHES. 

F there’s  anything  in  the  world  I hate — and  you  know  it — it  is,  asking 
you  for  money.  I am  sure,  for  myself,  I’d  rather  go  without  a 
thing  a thousand  times,  and  I do,  the  more  shame  for  you  to 
let  me. 

What  do  I want  now  ? As  if  }^ou  didn’t  know ! I’m  sure,  if  I’d 
,any  money  of  my  own,  I’d  never  ask  you  for  a farthing — never! 
It’s  painful  to  me,  gracious  knows ! 

What  do  you  say  ? If  it’s  painful,  why  so  often  do  it  ? I sup- 
pose you  call  that  a joke — one  of  your  club-jokes  ! As  I say,  I only 
wish  I’d  any  money  of  my  own.  If  there  is  anything  that  humbles 
a poor  woman,  it  is  coming  to  a man’s  pocket  for  every  farthing.  It’s  dreadful ! 

Now,  Caudle,  you  shall  hear  me,  for  it  isn’t  often  I speak.  Pray,  do  you  know 
what  month  it  is  ? And  did  you  see  how  the  children  looked  at  church  to-day- 
like  nobody  else’s  children  ? 

What  was  the  matter  with  them  ? Oh  ! Caudle,  how  can  you  ask  ? Weren’t 
they  all  in  their  thick  merinoes  and  beaver  bonnets  ? 

What  do  you  say  ? What  of  it  ? What ! You’ll  tell  me  that  you  didn’t  see  how 


MRS.  CAUDLE  WANTS  SPRING  CLOTH  KS. 


22  J 


the  Briggs  girls,  in  their  new  chips,  turned  their  noses  up  at  ’em  ? And  you  didn’t 
see  how  the  Browns  looked  at  the  Smiths,  and  then  at  our  poor  girls,  as  much  as  to 
say,  “ Poor  creatures  ! what  figures  for  the  first  of  May  ? ” 

You  didn’t  see  it?  The  more  shame  for  you ! I’m  sure,  those  Briggs  girls — the 
little  minxes ! — put  me  into  such  a pucker,  I could  have  pulled  their  ears  for  ’em 
over  the  pew. 

What  do  you  say  ? I ought  to  be  ashamed  to  own  it  ? Now,  Caudle,  it’s  no  use 
talking;  those  children  shall  not  cross  over  the  threshold  next  Sunday,  if  they 
haven’t  things  for  the  summer.  Now  mind — they  shan’t;  and  there’s  an  end 
of  it ! 

I’m  always  wanting  money  for  clothes  ? How  can  you  say  that?  I’m  sure  there 
are  no  children  in  the  world  that  cost  their  father  so  little ; but  that’s  it — the  less  a 
poor  woman  does  upon,  the  less  she  may. 

Now,  Caudle,  dear  ! What  a man  you  are ! I know  you’ll  give  me  the  money, 
because,  after  all,  I think  you  love  your  children,  and  like  to  see  ’em  well  dressed. 
It’s  only  natural  that  a father  should. 

How  much  money  do  I want  ? Let  me  see,  love.  There’s  Caroline,  and  Jane, 
and  Susan,  and  Mary  Anne,  and 

What  do  you  say?  I needn’t  count  ’em ! You  know  how  many  there  are! 
That’s  just  the  way  you  take  me  up  ! 

Well,  how  much  money  will  it  take  ? Let  me  see — I’ll  tell  you  in  a minute.  You 
always  love  to  see  the  dear  things  like  new  pins.  I know  that,  Caudle ; and  though 
I say  it,  bless  their  little  hearts ! they  do  credit  to  you,  Caudle. 

How  much  ? Now,  don’t  be  in  a hurry ! Well,  I think,  with  good  pinching — • 
and  you  know,  Caudle,  there’s  never  a wife  who  can  pinch  closer  than  I can — I 
think,  with  pinching,  I can  do  with  twenty  pounds. 

What  did  you  say?  Twenty  fiddlesticks? 

What!  You  won’t  give  half  the  money!  Very  well,  Mr.  Caudle;  I. don’t  care; 
let  the  children  go  in  rags ; let  them  stop  from  church,  and  grow  up  like  heathens 
and  cannibals ; and  then  you’ll  save  your  money,  and,  I suppose,  be  satisfied. 

What  do  you  say?  Ten  pounds  enough?  Yes,  just  like  you  men;  you  think 
things  cost  nothing  for  women ; but  you  don’t  care  how  much  you  lay  out  upon 
yourselves. 

They  only  want  frocks  and  bonnets  ? How  do  you  know  what  they  want  ? How 
should  a man  know  anything  at  all  about  it?  And  you  won’t  give  more  than 
ten  pounds  ? Very  well.  Then  you  may  go  shopping  with  it  yourself,  and  see 
what  you’ll  make  of  it ! I’ll  have  none  of  your  ten  pounds,  I can  tell  you — no,  sir ! 

No ; you’ve  no  cause  to  say  that.  I don’t  want  to  dress  the  children  up  like 
countesses!  You  often  throw  that  in  my  teeth,  you  do;  but  you  know  it’s  false, 
Caudle ; you  know  it ! I only  wish  to  give  ’em  proper  notions  of  themselves ; and 
what,  indeed,  can  the  poor  things  think,  when  they  see  the  Briggses,  the  Browns, 
and  the  Smiths — and  their  fathers  don’t  make  the  money  you  do,  Caudle— when 


222 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 


they  see  them  as  fine  as  tulips  ? Why,  they  must  think  themselves  nobody.  How- 
over,  the  twenty  pounds  I will  have,  if  I’ve  any ; or  not  a farthing ! 

No,  sir;  no — I don’t  want  to  dress  up  the  children  like  peacocks  and  parrots!  I 
only  want  to  make  ’em  respectable. 

What  do  you  say?  You’ll  give  me  fifteen  pounds?  No,  Caudle,  no;  not  a 
penny  will  I take  under  twenty.  If  I did,  it  would  seem  as  if  I wanted  to  waste 
your  money ; and  I’m  sure,  when  I come  to  think  of  it,  twenty  pounds  will  hardly  do. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 


Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack’s  scant  treasure 
A hoarded  volume  drew, 

And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure, 
To  hear  the  tale  anew; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster. 
And  as  the  firelight  fell, 

He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 
Had  writ  of  “ Little  Nell.” 

Perhaps  ’twas  boyish  fancy — for  the  reader 
Was  youngest  of  them  all — 

But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 
A silence  seemed  to  fall; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows. 
Listened  in  every  spray, 

While  the  whole  camp,  with  “Nell,”  on  English 

meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 


And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o’ertaken 
As  by  some  spell  divine — 

Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 
From  out  the  gusty  pine. 


Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire: 
And  he  who  wrought  that  spell? — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell! 


BOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drift- 
ing. 

The  river  sang  below ; 

The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow. 


Lost  is  that  camp  ! but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines’  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 


The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 
The  ruddy  tints  of  health 

On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 
In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth ; 


And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 
And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 

Deem  it  not  all  a too  presumptuous  folly — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine. 

F.  Bret  Harte. 


THE  BORROWED  UMBRELLA 


223 


THE  BORROWED  UMBRELLA. 

AH!  that’s  the  third  umbrella  gone  since  Christmas.  What  were  you  to 
do  ? Why,  let  him  go  home  in  the  rain,  to  be  sure.  I’m  very  certain 
there  was  nothing  about  him  that  could  spoil!  Take  cold,  indeed! 
He  doesn’t  look  like  one  of  the  sort  to  take  cold.  Besides,  he’d  have 
better  taken  cold,  than  taken  our  umbrella.  Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ? I 
say,  do  you  hear  the  rain  ? Do  you  hear  it  against  the  windows  ? Nonsense : 
you  don’t  impose  upon  me ; you  can’t  be  asleep  with  such  a shower  as  that ! Do 
you  hear  it,  I say?  Oh!  you  do  hear  it!  Well,  that’s  a pretty  flood,  I think,  to 
last  for  six  weeks  ; and  no  stirring  all  the  time  out  of  the  house.  Pooh  ! don’t  think 
me  a fool,  Mr.  Caudle;  don’t  insult  me;  he  return  the  umbrella?  Anybody  would 
think  you  were  born  yesterday.  As  if  anybody  ever  did  return  an  umbrella  ! 

There  : do  you  hear  it?  Worse  and  worse.  Cats  and  dogs  ! and  for  six  weeks; 
always  six  weeks  ; and  no  umbrella ! I should  like  to  know  how  the  children  are 
to  go  to  school  to-morrow.  They  sha’n’t  go  through  such  weather ; I am  deter- 
mined. No ; they  shall  stop  at  home  and  never  learn  anything  (the  blessed 
ereatures  !)  sooner  than  go  and  get  wet ! And  when  they  grow  up,  I wonder  whom 
they’ll  have  to  thank  for  knowing  nothing ; whom,  indeed,  but  their  father?  People 
who  can’t  feel  for  their  own  children  ought  never  to  be  fathers. 

But  I know  why  you  lent  the  umbrella : oh,  yes,  I know  very  well.  I was  going 
out  to  tea  at  dear  mother’s  to-morrow  : you  knew  that,  and  you  did  it  on  purpose. 
Don’t  tell  me ; you  hate  to  have  me  to  go  there,  and  take  every  mean  advantage  to 
hinder  me.  But  don’t  you  think  it,  Mr.  Caudle;  no,  sir  ; if  it  comes  down  in  buckets 
full,  I’ll  go  all  the  more.  No ; and  I’ll  not  have  a cab ! Where  do  you  think  the 
money’s  to  come  from  ? You’ve  got  nice,  high  notions  at  that  club  of  yours.  A 
cab,  indeed  ! Cost  me  sixteen-pence,  at  least ; sixteen-pence  ! two-and-eight-pence ; 
for  there’s  back  again.  Cabs,  indeed  ! I should  like  to  know  who’s  to  pay  for  ’em  ; 
for  I am  sure  you  can’t,  if  you  go  on  as  you  do,  throwing  away  your  property,  and 
beggaring  your  children,  buying  umbrellas  ! 

Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ? I say,  do  you  hear  it  ? But  I don’t  care ; I’ll 
go  to  mother’s  to-morrow ; I will ; and  what’s  more  I walk  every  step  of  the  way ; 
and  you  know  that  will  give  me  my  death.  Don’t  call  me  a foolish  woman ; ’tis 
you  that’s  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I can’t  wear  clogs;  and,  with  no  umbrella, 
the  wet’s  sure  to  give  me  a cold  : it  always  does  : but  what  do  you  care  for  that  ? 
Nothing  at  all.  I may  be  laid  up  for  what  you  care,  as  I dare  say  I shall ; and  a 
pretty  doctor’s  bill  there’ll  be.  I hope  there  will.  It  will  teach  you  to  lend  your 
umbrellas  again.  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  I caught  my  death : yes,  and  that’s  what 
you  lent  the  umbrella  for.  Of  course  ! 

Nice  clothes  I get,  too,  tramping  through  weather  like  this.  My  gown  and  bonnet 
will  be  spoiled  quite.  Needn’t  I wear  ’em  then  ? Indeed,  Mr.  Caudle,  I shall  wear 
’em.  No,  sir;  I’m  not  going  out  a dowdy  to  please  you  or  anybody  else.  Gracious 
knows!  it  isn’t  often  that  I step  over  the  threshold;  indeed,  I might  as  well  be  a 


224 


THE  BORROWED  UMBRELLA 


slave  at  once : better,  I should  say ; but  when  I do  go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I choose  ta 
go  as  a lady.  Oh  ! that  rain  ! if  it  isn’t  enough  to  break  in  the  windows.  Ugh  ! I 
look  forward  with  dread  for  to-morrow!  How  I am  to  go  to  mother’s,  I’m  sure  I 
can’t  tell,  but  if  I die,  I’ll  do  it.  No,  sir;  I’ll  not  borrow  an  umbrella  : no ; and  you 
sha’n’t  buy  one.  Mr.  Caudle,  if  you  bring  home  another  umbrella,  I’ll  throw  it  in 
Jie  street. 


Ha ! And  it  was  only  last  week  I had  a new  nozzle  put  on  that  umbrella.  I’m 
sure  if  I’d  known  as  much  as  I do  now,  it  might  have  gone  without  one.  Paying 
for  new  nozzles  for  other  people  to  laugh  at  you  ! Oh  ! ’tis  all  very  well  for  you. 
You’ve  no  thought  of  your  poor,  patient  wife,  and  your  own  dear  children;  you 


THE  SOLDIERS  DREAM. 


225 


think  of  nothing  but  lending  umbrellas  ! Men,  indeed  ! call  themselves  lords  of  the 
creation  S pretty  lords,  when  they  can’t  even  take  care  of  an  umbrella  ! 

I know  that  walk  to-morrow  will  be  the  death  of  me,  but  that’s  what  you  want : 
then  you  may  go  to  your  club,  and  do  as  you  like  ; and  then,  nicely  my  poor,  dear 
children  will  be  used;  but  then,  sir,  then  you’ll  be  happy.  Oh!  don’t  tell  me!  I 
know  you  will  : else  you’d  never  have  lent  the  umbrella!  You  have  to  go  on 
Thursday  about  that  summons ; and,  of  course,  you  can’t  go.  No,  indeed : you 
don't  go  without  the  umbrella.  You  may  lose  the  debt  for  what  I care;  ’tis  not  so 
bad  as  spoiling  your  clothes ; better  lose  it ; people  deserve  to  lose  debts  who  lend 
umbrellas ! 

And  I should  like  to  knowhow  I’m  to  go  to  mother’s  without  the  umbrella.  Oh ! 
don’t  tell  me  that  I said  I would  go ; that’s  nothing  to  do  with  it : nothing  at  all. 
She’ll  think  I’m  neglecting  her;  and  the  little  money  we’re  to  have,  we  sha’n’t  have 
at  all : because  we’ve  no  umbrella.  The  children  too ! (dear  things  !)  they’ll  be 
sopping  wet ; for  they  sha’n’t  stay  at  home  ; they  sha’n’t  lose  their  learning  ; ’tis  all 
their  father  will  leave  them,  I’m  sure.  But  they  shall  go  to  school.  Don’t  tell  me 
they  shouldn’t  (you  are  so  aggravating,  Caudle,  you’d  spoil  the  temper  of  an  angel)* 
they  shall  go  to  school ; mark  that ; and  if  they  get  their  deaths  of  cold,  ’tis  not  my 
fault;  I didn’t  lend  the  umbrella.  Douglas  Jerrold. 


THE  SOLDIER’S  DREAM. 

UR  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud 
had  lowered, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch 
in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground 
overpowered, 

The  weary  to  sleep  and  the  wounded  to  die. 


When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain ; 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a sweet  vision  I saw, 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I dreamt  it  again. 


Methought  from  the  battle-field’s  dreadful  array, 

Far,  far  I had  roamed  on  a desolate  track : 

’Twas  autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 

I flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life’s  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was 
young; 

I heard  my  own  mountain  goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn- reapers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 
part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a thousand  times  o’er, 

And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

*5 


“ Stay,  stay  with  us — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn;” 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ; — 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


MAKE  BELIEVE. 

ISS  me,  though  you  make  believe ; 
Kiss  me,  though  I almost  know 
You  are  kissing  to  deceive  : 

Let  the  tide  one  moment  flow 
Backward  ere  it  rise  and  break, 
Only  for  poor  pity’s  sake ! 


Give  me  of  your  flowers  one  leaf, 
Give  me  of  your  smiles  one  smile, 
Backward  roll  this  tide  of  grief 
Just  a moment,  though,  the  while, 
I should  feel  and  almost  know 
You  are  trifling  with  my  woe. 


Whisper  to  me  sweet  and  low ; 

Tell  me  how  you,  sit  and  weave 
Dreams  about  me,  though  I know 
It  is  only  make  believe  ! 

Just  a moment,  though  ’t  is  plain 
You  are  jesting  with  my  pain. 

Alice  Carey. 


226 


HIAWATHA , 


HIAWATHA. 


vAHARl^y  sc. 


N the 
valley 
ofTa- 
was- 
entha, 

In  the  green  and  silent 
valley, 

By  the  pleasant  water- 
courses, 

Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadoha  : 
There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  the  song  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  prayed,  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suf- 
fered, 

That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 

That  he  might  advance  his  people. 


Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 

Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 

And  the  rain-shower,  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 

Listen  to  these  wild  traditions 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha. 


Ye  who  love  a nation’s  legends 
Love  the  ballads  of  a people, 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 


Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 

Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike. 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken  ; — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simply 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 

Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 

That  in  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings. 

For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 

That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Touch  God’s  right  hand  in  that  darkness. 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened — 
Listen  to  this,  to  this  simple  story, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha ! 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 

Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mat  of  flags  and  rushes; 

Of  the  past  the  old  man’s  thoughts  were. 
And  the  maiden’s  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 

Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 

Of  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 

Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward. 

On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wo-wa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 

How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 

Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows ; 

Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors, 

Could  be  found  on  earth,  as  they  were  t 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 

Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons. 


She  was  thinking  of  a hunter, 

From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  spring  time. 
Came  to  buy  her  father’s  arrows, 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back,  as  he  departed. 

She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him. 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  falls  of  Minnehaha  i 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 

And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamyt 


HI  A W A TH A 


22/ 


Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a footstep, 
Heard  a rustling  in  the  branches, 

And,  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 

With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 

Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 

Laid  aside  th’  unfinished  arrow, 

Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 

Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him — 

“ Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome ! ” 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 

Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 

And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 

Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 

Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent — 

“ You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 

Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 

With  the  gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains ; 

And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 

Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 

From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 

Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 

Brought  forth  food,  and  set  before  them. 

Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 

Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 

Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 

Listened  while  her  father  answered, 

But  not  once  her  lip  she  opened, 

Not  a single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a dream,  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 

As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 

As  he  told  of  his  companions, 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

“After  many  years  of  warfare, 

Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 

There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs.” 

Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 

And  then  added,  speaking  slowly — 

“ That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 

And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 

And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 

Give  me,  as  my  wife,  this  maiden, 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 

Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  ! ” 


And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a moment  ere  he  answered. 

Smoked  a little  while  in  silence, 

Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 

Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 

And  made  answer  very  gravely : 

“ Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes; 

Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha ! ” 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  th«re. 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 

As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 

Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 

While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it — 

“ I will  follow  you  my  husband  ! ” 

This  was  Hiawatha’s  wooing! 

Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 

Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water; 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 

Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow,. 

Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 

Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 

Crying  to  them  from  afar  off — ■ 

“ Fare  thee  well,  O Minnehaha ! ” 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward! 

All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart’s-ease ; 

Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa — 

“ Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 

Having  such  a wife  to  love  you ! 

Sang  the  Opechee,  the  robin — 

“ Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 

Having  such  a nobie  husband  ! ” 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches^. 
Saying  to  them — “ O my  children, 

Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 

Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 

Rule  by  love,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them. 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispere  to  them — “O  my  children. 

Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 

Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 

Half  is  mine,  although  I follow; 

Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water ! yy 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed' homeward; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 

To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 

Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight. 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 

Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


228 


HAPPY  THOUGHTS. 


HAPPY  THOUGHTS. 


THE  OBJECT  OF  TRAINING. 

ANY  children  grow  up  like  plants  under  bell- 
glasses.  They  are  surrounded  only  by  artificial 
and  prepared  influences.  They  are  house-bred, 
room-bred,  nurse-bred,  mother-bred — everything 
but  self-bred.  The  object  of  training  is  to 
teach  the  child  to  take  care  of  himself ; but 
many  parents  use  their  children  only  as 
a kind  of  spool  on  which  to  reel  off  their 
own  experience ; and  they  are  bound  and 
corded  until  they  perish  by  inanity,  or  break 
all  bonds  and  cords,  and  rush  to  ruin  by 
reaction. 

A BLESSED  BANKRUPTCY. 

I heard  a man  who  had  failed  in  business,  and  whose  furni- 
ture was  sold  at  auction,  say  that,  when  the  cradle,  and  the 
crib,  and  the  piano  went,  tears  would  come,  and  he  had  to 
leave  the  house  to  be  a man.  Now,  there  are  thousands  of 
men  who  have  lost  their  pianos,  but  who  have  found  better 
music  in  the  sound  of  their  children’s  voices  and  footsteps 
going  cheerfully  down  with  them  to  poverty,  than  any  har- 
mony of  chorded  instruments.  O,  how  blessed  is  bankruptcy 
when  it'  saves  a man’s  children ! I see  many  men  who  are 
bringing  up  their  children  as  I should  bring  up  mine,  if, 
when  they  were  ten  years  old,  I should  lay  them  on  the 
dissecting-table,  and  cut  the  sinews  of  their  arms  and  legs,  so  that  they  could  neither 
walk  nor  use  their  hands,  but  only  sit  still  and  be  fed.  Thus  rich  men  put  the  knife 
of  indolence  and  luxury  to  their  children’s  energies,  and  they  grow  up  fatted,  lazy 
calves,  fitted  for  nothing,  at  twenty -five,  but  to  drink  deep  and  squander  wide ; and 
the  father  must  be  a slave  all  his  life,  in  order  to  make  beasts  of  his  children.  How 
blessed,  then,  is  the  stroke  of  disaster,  which  sets  the  children  free,  and  gives  them 
over  to  the  hard,  but  kind  bosom  of  Poverty,  who  says  to  them  “ Work  ” and, 
working,  makes  them  men ! 

1 WORK,  NOT  WORRY. 

, It  is  not  work  that  kills  men ; it  is  worry.  Work  is  healthy ; you  can  hardly 
put  more  upon  a man  than  he  can  bear.  Worry  is  rust  upon  the  blade.  It  is  not 
the  revolution  that  destroys  the  machinery,  but  the  friction.  Fear  secretes  acids  ; 
but  love  and  trust  are  sweet  juices. 


HAPPY  THOUGHTS. 


229 


CHRISTIAN  MAN’S  LIFE. 


A Christian  man’s  life  is  laid  in  the  loom  of  time  to  a pattern  which  he  does  not 
see,  but  God  does ; and  his  heart  is  a shuttle.  On  one  side  of  the  loom  is  sorrow, 
and  on  the  other  is  joy;  and  the  shuttle,  struck  alternately  by  each,  flies  back  and 
forth,  carrying  the  thread,  which  is  white  or  black,  as  the  pattern  needs  ; and,  in  the 
end,  when  God  shall  lift  up  the  finished  garment,  and  all  its  changing  hues  shall 
glance  out,  it  will  then  appear  that  the  deep  and  dark  colors  were  as  needful  to 
beauty  as  the  bright  and  high  colors. 

UGLY  KIND  OF  FORGIVENESS. 

There  is  an  ugly  kind  of  forgiveness  in  this  world — a kind  of  hedge-hog  forgive- 
ness, shot  out  like  quills.  Men  take  one  who  has  offended,  and  set  him  down  before 
the  blow-pipe  of  their  indignation,  and  scorch  him,  and  burn  his  fault  into  him;  and, 
when  they  have  kneaded  him  sufficiently  with  their  fiery  fists,  then — they  forgive 
him. 

A NOBLE  MAN. 

A noble  man  compares  and  estimates  himself  by  an  idea  which  is  higher  than 
himself,  and  a mean  man  by  one  which  is  lower  than  himself.  The  one  produces 
aspiration ; the  other,  ambition.  Ambition  is  the  way  in  which  a vulgar  man  aspires. 


230 


THE  LOST  DOLL. 


THE  SEVEREST  TEST  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

It  is  one  of  the  severest  tests  of  friendship  to  tell  your  friend  of  his  faults.  If  you 
are  angry  with  a man,  or  hate  him,  it  is  not  hard  to  go  to  him  and  stab  him  with 
words ; but  so  to  love  a man  that  you  cannot  bear  to  see  the  stain  of  sin  upon  him, 
and  to  speak  painful  truth  through  loving  words — that  is  friendship.  But  few  have 
such  friends.  Our  enemies  usually  teach  us  what  we  are,  at  the  point  of  the  sword. 

THE  WAY  OF  LOOKING  AT  A GIFT. 

The  other  day,  in  walking  down  the  street,  a little  beggar  boy — or  one  who  might 
have  begged,  so  ragged  was  he — having  discovered  that  I loved  flowers,  came  and 
put  into  my  hand  a faded  little  sprig  which  he  had  somewhere  found.  I did  not 
look  directly  at  the  scrawny,  withered  branch,  but  beheld  it  through  the  medium  of 
the  boy’s  heart,  seeing  what  he  would  have  given,  not  what  he  gave;  and  so  looking, 
the  shriveled  stem  was  laden  with  blossoms  of  beauty  and  odor.  And  if  I,  who 
am  cold  and  selfish,  and  ignorant,  receive  so  graciously  the  offering  of  a poor  child, 
with  what  tender  joy  must  our  heavenly  Father  receive  the  sincere  tribute  of  his 
creatures  when  he  looks  through  the  medium  of  his  infinite  love  and  compassion ! 

SCRIPTURAL  SOBRIETY. 

All  the  sobriety  which  religion  needs  or  requires  is  that  which  real  earnestness 
produces.  Tears  and  shadows  are  not  needful  to  sobriety.  Smiles  and  cheerfulness 
are  as  much  its  elements.  When  men  say — Be  sober,  they  usually  mean,  Be  stupid ; 
but,  when  the  Bible  says,  Be  sober,  it  means,  Rouse  up  and  let  fly  the  earnestness 
and  vivacity  of  life.  The  old,  Scriptural  sobriety  was  effectual  doing ; the  latter,  as- 
cetic sobriety  is  effectual  dulness. 

HOME. 

A man’s  house  should  be  on  the  hill-top  of  cheerfulness  and  serenity,  so  high 
that  no  shadows  rest  upon  it,  and  where  the  morning  comes  so  early,  and  the  even- 
ing tarries  so  late,  that  the  day  has  twice  as  many  golden  hours  as  those  of  other 
men.  He  is  to  be  pitied  whose  house  is  in  some  valley  of  grief  between  the  hills, 
with  the  longest  night  and  the  shortest  day.  Home  should  be  the  centre  of  joy. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 


THE  LOST  DOLL. 


ONCE  had  a sweet  little  doll,  dears. 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world  ; 

Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white, 
dears, 

And  her  hair  was  so  charmingly  curled, 
But  I lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I played  on  the  heath  one  day ; 

And  I cried  for  her  more  than  a week,  dears. 

But  I never  could  find  where  she  lay. 


I found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I played  on  the  heath  one  day ; 

Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  dears, 

For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away, 

And  her  arm’s  trodden  off  by  the  cows,  dears, 
And  her  hair’s  not  the  least  bit  curled ; 

Yet  for  old  time's  sake , she  is  still,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


THE  DRUNK  A ED'S  DAUGHTER . 


THE 

DRUNKARD’S 

DAUGHTER. 

feel  what  I have  felt, 
Go,  bear  what  I have 
borne ; 

Sink  ’neath  a blow  a 
father  dealt, 

And  the  cold,  proud 
world’s  scorn ; 
Thus  struggle  on  from 
year  to  year, 

Thy  sole  relief — the 
scalding  tear. 

I \ 

Go,  weep  as  I have 
wept, 

O’er  a loved  father’s 
fall, 

every  cherished  promise 
swept — 

Youth’s  sweetness  turned  to 
gall ; 

Hope’s  faded  flowers  strewed 
all  the  way 

That  led  me  up  to  woman’s  day. 

Go,  kneel  as  I have  knelt ; 

Implode,  beseech,  and  pray, 
Strive  the  besotted  heart  to 
melt, 

The  downward  course  to 
stay ; 

|5e  cast  with  bitter  curse  aside — 
Thy  prayers  burlesqued,  thy 
tears  defied. 

Go,  stand  where  I have  stood, 
And  see  the  strong  man  bow ; 
With  gnashing  teeth,  lips 
bathed  in  blood, 

And  cold  and  livid  brow  ; 

Go,  catch  his  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  mirrored,  his  soul’s  misery. 


Go,  hear  what  I have  heard — 

The  sobs  of  sad  despair, 

As  memory’s  feeling  fount  hath  stirred, 
And  its  revealings  there 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been, 
Had  he  the  drunkard’s  fate  foreseen. 


Go  to  my  mother’s  side, 

And  her  crushed  spirit  cheer ; 

Thine  own  deep  anguish  hide, 

Wipe  from  her  cheek  the  tear. 

Mark  her  dimmed  eye,  her  furrowed  brow, 
The  gray  that  streaks  her  dark  hair  now; 
Her  toil-worn  frame,  her  trembling  limb, 
And  trace  the  ruin  back  to  him 


' *-*3 1 

Whose  plighted  faith,  in  early  youth, 

Promised  eternal  love  and  truth ; 

But  who,  forsworn,  hath  yielded  up 
That  promise  t9  the  deadly  cup, 

And  led  her  down  from  love  and  light, 

From  all  that  made  her  pathway  bright, 

And  chained  her  there  ’mid  want  and  strife. 
That  lowly  thing,  a drunkard’s  wife  ! 

And  stamped  on  childhood’s  brow  so  mild, 
That  withering  blight,  a drunkard’s  child ! 

Go,  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know, 

All  that  my  soul  hath  felt  and  known, 

Then  look  upon  the  wine-cup’s  glow ; 

See  if  its  brightness  can  atone ; 

Think  if  its  flavor  you  will  try, 

If  all  proclaimed,  “ ’Tis  drink  and  die ! ” 

Tell  me  I hate  the  bowl ; 

Hate  is  a feeble  word  : 

I loathe,  abhor — my  very  soul 
With  strong  disgust  is  stirred 
Whene’er  I see,  or  hear,  or  tell, 

Of  the  dark  beverage  of  hell ! 


OF  PRAYER. 

Evening,  and  morning,  and  at  noon  will  I pray.’* — Psalms. 

WILL  rise  and  pray  while  the  dews  of  morn, 
Like  gems  are  scattered  o’ertree  and  thorn, 
Ere  the  sun  comes  up,  in  his  glorious 
bower, 

To  waken  the  bird  and  open  the  flower ; 

I will  turn  from  earth,  to  Heaven  aspiring, 

With  faith  unshaken,  hope  untiring, 

And  for  strength  to  walk  through  the  weary  day. 
To  the  God  of  love  will  I kneel  and  pray. 

I will  pray  at  noon,  when  the  fervid  glow 
Of  the  sultry  sun  is  upon  my  brow ; 

When  the  flocks  have  sought  the  shading  trees ; 
When  the  stream  is  silent,  and  hushed  the  breeze ; 
And  praise  the  doings  of  nature’s  God ; 

Then  closing  my  eyes  on  the  glorious  day, 

To  the  God  of  love  will  I kneel  and  pray. 

I will  pray  at  eve,  when  the  crimson  light 
Is  passing  away  from  the  mountain’s  height ; 

When  the  holy,  solemn  twilight  hour 
Is  hushing  the  bird  and  closing  the  flower; 

When  all  is  rest,  and  the  stars  come  forth 
To  keep  their  watch  o’er  the  sleeping  earth — 

To  Him  who  hath  kept,  and  blest  through  the  day. 
To  the  God  of  love  will  I kneel  and  pray. 

Thus  will  I pray,  for  I find  it  sweet 
To  be  often  found  at  my  Maker’s  feet; 

I will  always  pray — on  the  heavenly  road — 

I ne’er  shall  faint  while  I lean  on  my  God. 

I shall  gather  strength  for  my  upward  flight ; 

My  path  will  be  as  the  shining  light ; 

It  shall  heighten  to  perfect,  eternal  day, 

Therefore  to  God  will  I always  pray. 

. Anonymous. 


232 


FI TZ- JAMES  AND  RODERICK  DHU. 


FITZ-JAMES  AND  RODERICK  DHU. 


HE  chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent’s  sounding  shore. 
And  here  his  course  the  chieftain  stayed, 
Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 

And  to  the  lowland  warrior  said  : 


“ Bold  Saxon  ! to  his  promise  just, 

Vich  Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man, 
This  head  of  a rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe  through  watch  and  ward,. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 


235. 


Far  past  Clan-Alpine’s  outmost  guard. 

Now.  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A chieftain’s  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here  all  vantageless  I stand, 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand ; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword.” 

The  Saxon  paused  : “ I ne’er  delayed, 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 
Nay,  more,  brave  chief,  I vowed  thy  death  : 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 

And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 

A better  meed  have  well  deserved  : 


Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 

Are  there  no  means  ? ” “ No,  Stranger,  none  l 

And  hear — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal — 

The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ; 

For  thus  spoke  Fate  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead ; 

‘ Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman’s  life, 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.’  ” 

“ Then,  by  my  word,”  the  Saxon  said, 

“ The  riddle  is  already  read  : 

Seek  yonder  brake,  beneath  the  cliff, 

There  lies  Red  Murdock,  stark  and  stiff; 

Thus  fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy, 

Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me.” 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

' The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around." — Coleridge. 

WHITHER  sail  you,  Sir 
John  Franklin?” 

Cried  a whaler  in  Baffin’s 
Bay. 

“ To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the 
pole 

I may  find  a broad  sea-way.” 

“ I charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 
As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 

For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 
No  man  may  sail  alive.” 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  spoke  unto  his  men  : — 

“ Half  England  is  wrong  if  he  is  right ; 
Bear  off  to  the  westward  then.” 

“ O,  whither  sail  you,  brave  English- 
man ? ” 

Cried  the  little  Esquimau. 

“ Between  the  land  and  the  polar  star 
My  goodly  vessels  go.” 

“ Come  down,  if  you  would  journey 
there,” 

The  little  Indian  said ; 

“ And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 
Your  vessel  for  a sled.” 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too ; 
“ A sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 

I ween,  were  something  new.” 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 
The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 

Cnd  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was 
blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled — 


Gave  way  with  many  a hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a surly  roar ; 

But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 
And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 


“ Ho  ! see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 
The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian’s  sled  !” 
The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 


234 


SIX  JOHN  FRANKLJN. 


“ Sir  John,  Sir  John,  ’tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 

The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

**  Eright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 
We  cannot  rule  the  year; 

But  long  ere  summer’s  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we’ll  steer.” 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 

And  floundered  down  the  gale ; 

The  ships  were  stayed,  the  yards  were  manned, 
And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

"**  The  summer’s  gone,  the  winter’s  come, 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea; 

Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? ” 

A silent  man  was  he. 

***  The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year; 

I ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we’d  steer.” 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on. 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 

Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more — 
Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God  ! there  is  no  sea ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of  the  Esquimau  ? 

A sled  were  better  than  a ship 
To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow.” 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  Northern  Light  came  out, 

And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 
And  on  the  decks  was  laid ; 

Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

■“  Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 

The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death; 

I prithee,  captain,  speak  ! ” 

u The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 

The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold.” 

“ What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  o’er  the  main  flag-staff? 

Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Took  down  with  a patient,  settled  stare, 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh.” 


The  summer  went,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year ; 

But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 

And  open  a path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around  : 

But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death, 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

“ Hark  ! heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns  ? 

And  there,  and  there  again  ? ” 

“ ’Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg’s  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main.” 

“ Hurrah  ! hurrah  ! the  Esquimaux 
Across  the  ice-fields  steal.” 

“ God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity ! 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal.” 

“ Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields  ? 

And  where  are  the  English  trees  ? 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze  ? ” 

“ Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 

And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 
The  grass  and  the  waving  grain.” 

“ Oh  ! when  shall  I see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me.” 

“ Oh  ! when  shall  I see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? ” 

“ Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors, 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again  ! ” 

But  a tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek ; 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah  ! bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more ; 

More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

“ Oh  ! think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 
We’ll  ever  see  the  land  ? 

’Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a helping  hand. 

“ ’Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here,  Sir  John, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 

To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 

I ween  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 
Had  rather  send  than  come.” 

“ Oh  ! whether  we  starve  to  death  alone 
Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 

We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done — 
The  open  ocean  danced  in  the  sun — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea  ! ” 

George  H.  Boker 


B IJAH'S  STORY. 


235 


BIJAH’S  STORY. 

DETROIT  FREE  PRESS. 


was  little  more  than  a baby, 

And  played  on  the  streets  all  day; 
^nd  holding  in  his  tiny  fingers 
The  string  of  a broken  sleigh. 

He  was  ragged,  and  cold,  and  hungry, 
Yet  his  face  was  a sight  to  see, 

And  he  lisped  to  a passing  lady — 

“ Pleathe,  mithus,  will  you  yide  me  ? ” 


“ You  see,  I leave  him  at  Smithers’ 
While  I go  round  with  the  ‘ Press : ’ 
They  must  have  forgot  about  him, 

And  he’s  strayed  away,  I guess. 

“ Last  night  when  he  said  ‘ Our  Father/ 
And  about  the  daily  bread, 

He  just  threw  in  an  extra 
Concerning  a nice  new  sled. 


But  she  drew  close  her 
fur-lined  mantle, 

And  her  train  of  silk 
and  lace, 

While  she  stared  with 
haughty  wonder 
In  the  eager,  piteous 
face. 

And  the  eyes  that  shone 
so  brightly, 

Brimmed  o’er  with 
gushing  rain, 

And  the  poor  little  head 
dropped  lower 
While  his  heart  beat  a 
sad  refrain. 

When  night  came,  cold 
and  darkly, 

And  the  lamps  were 
all  alight, 

The  pallid  lips  grew 
whiter 

With  childish  grief  and 
fright. 

As  I was  passing  the  en- 
trance 

Of  a church  across  the 
way, 

I found  a poor  dead  baby. 
With  his  head  on  a 
broken  sleigh. 

Soon  young  and  eager 
footsteps 

Were  heard  on  the 
frozen  street, 

And  a boy  dashed  into 
the  station, 

Covered  with  snow 
and  sleet. 


On  his  coat  was  a newsboy’s  number, 
On  his  arm  a “ bran  new  sled ; ” 

**  Have  you  seen  my  brother  Bijah  ? 
He  ought  to  be  home  in  bed 


“ I was  tellin’  the  boys  at  the  office, 

As  how  he  was  only  three ; 

And  they  stuck  in  for  this  here  stunner: 
And  sent  it  home  with  me. 


236 


THE  SEXTON. 


“ And  won’t — what’s  the  matter,  Bijah  ? 

Why  do  you  shake  your  head  ? 

O Father  in  Heaven,  have  pity  ! 

O Bijah,  he  can’t  be  dead  ! ” 

He  clasped  the  child  to  his  bosom 
In  a passionate,  close  embrace, 

His  tears  and  kisses  falling 
’Twixt  sobs  on  the  little  face. 

Soon  the  boyish  grief  grew  silent; 

There  was  never  a tear  nor  a moan, 

For  the  heart  of  the  dear  Lord  Jesus 
Had  taken  the  children  home. 

Charles  M.  Lewis — “M.  Quad.” 


THE  SEXTON. 


IGH  to  a grave 
that  was  newly 
made 

Leaned  a sexton 
old  on  his 
e ar  t h-w  o r n 
spade ; 

His  work  was 
done  and  he 
paused  to  wait 
The  funeral-train 
at  the  open 
gate, 

A relic  of  by-gone 
days  was  he, 
And  his  locks 
were  gray  as 
the  foamy  sea; 
And  these  words 
came  from  his 
lips  so  thin : 

I gather  them  in — I gather  them 


m- 

Gather- 


them 


-I  gather  them  in. 
for  man  and 


“ I gather 
boy, 

Year  after  year  of  grief  and  joy, 
I’ve  builded  the  houses  that  lie 
around 

In  every  nook  of  this  burial-ground. 
Mother  and  daughter,  father  and  son, 
Come  to  my  solitude  one  by  one ; 
But  come  they  stranger,  or  come 
they  kin, 

I gather  them  in — I gather  them  in. 

“ Many  are  with  me,  yet  I’m  alone ; 
I’m  King  of  the  Dead,  and  I make 
my  throne 

On  a monument  slab  of  marble 
cold — 

My  sceptre  of  rule  is  the  spade  I hold. 

Come  they  from  cottage,  or  come  they  from  hall, 
Mankind  are  my  subjects,  all,  all,  all ! 


May  they  loiter  in  pleasure,  or  toilfully  spin, 

I gather  them  in — I gather  them  in. 

“ I gather  them  in,  and  their  final  rest 
Is  here,  down  here,  in  the  earth’s  dark  breast . 
And  the  sexton  ceased  as  the  funeral-train 
Wound  mutely  over  that  solemn  plain  ; 

And  I said  to  myself : When  time  is  told, 

A mightier  voice  than  that  sexton’s  old, 

Will  be  heard  o’er  the  last  trump’s  dreadful  dins 
“ I gather  them  in — I gather  them  in — 

Gather — gather — gather  them  in.” 

Park  Benjamin. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP. 

HEN  sets  the  weary  sun, 

And  the  long  day  is  done, 

And  starry  orbs  their  solemn  vigils  keep;- 
When  bent  with  toil  and  care, 

We  breathe  our  evening  prayer, 

God  gently  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

When  by  some  slanderous  tongue 
The  heart  is  sharply  stung, 

And  with  the  sense  of  cruel  wrong  we  weep,. 
How  like  some  heavenly  calm 
Comes  down  the  soothing  balm 
What  time  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep! 

O sweet  and  blessed  rest ! 

With  these  sore  burdens  press’d, 

To  lose  ourselves  in  slumber,  long  and  deep,. 

To  drop  our  heavy  load 
Beside  the  dusty  road, 

When  He  hath  given  His  beloved  sleep. 

And  on  our  closed  eyes 
What  visions  may  arise, 

What  sights  of  joy  to  make  the  spirit  leap;. 

What  memories  may  return 
From  out  their  golden  urn, 

If  God  but  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

And  when  life’s  day  shall  close 
In  death’s  last  deep  repose, 

When  the  dark  shadows  o’er  our  eyelids  creep 
Let  us  not  be  afraid 
At  this  thick  gathering  shade, 

For  God  so  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

To  sleep ! — it  is  to  wake 
When  the  fresh  day  shall  break, 

When  the  new  sun  climbs  up  the  eastern  steep  ; 

To  wake  with  new-born  powers 
Out  from  these  darken’d  Hours, 

For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

To  die ! — it  is  to  rise 
To  fairer,  brighter  skies, 

Where  Death  no  more  shall  his  dread  harvest  reap 
To  soar  on  angel  wings 
Where  life  immortal  springs, 

For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

Anonymous. 


TO  31 Y INFANT  SON 


237 


TO  MY  INFANT  SON. 


HOU  happy,  happy  elf! 

(But  stop,  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear,) 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 

(My  love,  he’s  poking  peas  into  his  ear,) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite, 

With  spirits  feather  light, 

Untouched  by  sorrow  and  unsoiled  by  sin ; 

(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  rings  the  air— 

(The  door!  the  door!  he’ll  tumble  down  the  stair!) 
Thou  darling  of  thy  sire ! 

(Why,  Jane,  he’ll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy! 

In  love’s  dear  chain  so  bright  a link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents;  (Drat  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink.) 

Thou  cherub,  but  of  earth ; 

Fit  playfellow  for  fairies  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth; 

(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  his  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows. 
Singing  in  youth’s  Elysium  ever  sunny, 

(Another  tumble ! That’s  his  precious  nose !) 

Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope ! 

(He’ll  break  that  mirror  with  that  skipping  rope  !) 


With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature’s  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 

(He’ll  have  that  ring  off  with  another  shove,) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He’ll  climb  upon  the  table,  that’s  his  plan,) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 
(He’s  got  a knife !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 
Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick, 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 
With  many  a lamb-like  frisk ! 

(He’s  got  the  scissors  snipping  at  your  gown  !) 
Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 

(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 

Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove ; 

I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
cannot  write  unless  he’s  sent  above.) 

Thomas  Hood. 


A FAREWELL. 


Y fairest  child,  I have  no  song  to  give  you, 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and 
gray, 

Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 


Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them  all  day  long; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever, 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


238 


THE  CHANGING  YEAR. 


THE  CHANGING  YEAR. 

ARY ! Darkness  and  light  reign  alike.  Snow  is  on  the  ground 
d is  in  the  air.  The  winter  is  blossoming  in  frost-flowers.  Why  is 
ground  hidden  ? Why  is  the  earth  white  ? So  hath  God  wiped  out 
past,  so  hath  he  spread  the  earth  like  an  unwritten  page,  for  a new 
year ! Old  sounds  are  silent  in  the  forest  and  in  the  air.  Insects  are  dead,  birds 
are  gone,  leaves  have  perished,  and  all  the  foundations  of  soil  remain.  Upon  this 
lies  (white  and  tranquil,  the  emblem  of  newness  and  purity)  the  virgin  robes  of  the 
yet  unstained  year ! 

February!  The  day  gains  upon  the  night.  The  strife  of  heat  and  cold  is  scarce 
begun.  The  winds  that  come  from  the  desolate  north  wander  through  the  forests 
of  frost-cracking  boughs,  and  shout  in  the  air  the  weird  cries  of  the  northern  bergs 
and  ice-resounding  oceans.  Yet  as  the  month  wears  on,  the  silent  work  begins, 
though  storms  rage.  The  earth  is  hidden  yet,  but  not  dead.  The  sun  is  drawing 
near.  The  storms  cry  out.  But  the  sun  is  not  heard  in  all  the  heavens.  Yet  he 
whispers  words  of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of  every  sleeping  seed  and  root  that  lies 
beneath  the  snow.  The  day  opens,  but  the  night  shuts  the  earth  with  its  frost-lock. 
They  strive  together,  but  the  Darkness  and  the  Cold  are  growing  weaker.  On  some 
nights  they  forget  to  work. 

March  ! The  conflict  is  more  turbulent,  but  the  victory  is  gained.  The  world 
awakes.  There  come  voices  from  long-hidden  birds.  The  smell  of  the  soil  is  in 
the  air.  The  sullen  ice  retreating  from  open  field,  and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk 
to  the  north  of  every  fence  and  rock.  The  knolls  and  banks  that  face  the  east  or 
south  sigh  for  release,  and  begin  to  lift  up  a thousand  tiny  palms. 

April!  The  singing  month.  Many  voices  of  many  birds  call  for  resurrection 
over  the  graves  of  flowers,  and  they  come  forth.  Go,  see  what  they  have  lost. 
What  have  ice,  and  snow,  and  storm,  done  unto  them  ? How  did  they  fall  into  the 
earth,  stripped  and  bare?  How  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glorified?  Is  it, 
then,  so  fearful  a thing  to  lie  in  the  grave?  In  its  wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged 
of  storms  through  its  orbit,  the  earth  has  scattered  away  no  treasures.  The  Hand 
that  governs  in  April  governed  in  January.  You  have  not  lost  what  God  has  only 
hidden.  You  lose  nothing  in  struggle,  in  trial,  in  bitter  distress.  If  called  to  shed 
thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves;  if  the  affections  be  driven  back  into  the  heart,  as  the 
life  of  flowers  to  their  roots,  yet  be  patient.  Thou  shalt  lift  up  thy  leaf-covered 
boughs  again.  Thou  shalt  shoot  forth  from  thy  roots  new  flowers.  Be  patient. 
Wait.  When  it  is  February,  April  is  not  far  off.  Secretly  the  plants  love  each 
other. 

May  ! O Flower-Month,  perfect  the  harvests  of  flowers ! Be  not  niggardly. 
Search  out  the  cold  and  resentful  nooks  that  refused  the  sun,  casting  back  its  rays 
from  disdainful  ice,  and  plant  flowers  even  there.  There  is  goodness  in  the  worst. 
There  is  warmth  in  the  coldness.  The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreathing  sun,  that  will  not 


“THE  WINTER  IS  BLOSSOMING  IN  FROST-FLOWERS." 

(239) 


240 


THE  CHANGING  YEAR. 


fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a placid  brow  through  the  unwrinkled  heavens,  at  length 
conquers  the  very  rocks,  and  lichens  grow  and  inconspicuously  blossom.  What 
shall  not  Time  do,  that  carries  in  its  bosom  Love  ? 

June!  Rest!  This  is  the  year’s  bower.  Sit  down  within  it.  Wipe  from  thy 
brow  the  toil.  The  elements  are  thy  servants.  The  dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The 
winds  bring  perfume.  The  earth  shows  thee  all  her  treasure.  The  forests  sing  to 
thee.  The  air  is  all  sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone  through  it,  bearing 
spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as  flocks  of  mighty  birds  that  spread  their 
wings  and  sing  in  the  high  heaven  ! Speak  to  God,  now,  and  say,  “ O Father, 
where  art  thou  ? ” Arid  out  of  every  flower,  and  tree,  and  silver  pool,  and  twined 
thicket,  a voice  will  come,  “ God  is  in  me.”  The  earth  cries  to  the  heavens,  “ God 
is  here.”  And  the  heavens  cry  to  the  earth,  “God  is  here.”  The  sea  claims  Him. 
The  land  hath  Him.  His  footsteps  are  upon  the  deep!  He  sitteth  upon  the  Circle 
of  the  Earth  ! O sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet  soft  and  temperate,  how  soon 
will  the  eager  months  that  come  burning  from  the  equator,  scorch  you  ! 

July  ! Rouse  up ! The  temperate  heats  that  filled  the  air  are  raging  forward  to 
glow  and  overfill  the  earth  with  hotness.  Must  it  be  thus  in  everything,  that  June 
shall  rush  toward  August  ? Or,  is  it  not  that  there  are  deep  and  unreached  places 
for  whose  sake  the  probing  sun  pierces  down  its  glowing  hands  ? There  is  a deeper 
work  than  June  can  perform.  The  earth  shall  drink  of  the  heat  before  she  knows 
her  nature  or  her  strength.  Then  shall  she  bring  forth  to  the  uttermost  the  treas- 
ures of  her  bosom.  For,  there  are  things  hidden  far  down,  and  the  deep  things  of 
life  are  not  known  till  the  fire  reveals  them. 

August  ! Reign,  thou  Fire-Month  ! What  canst  thou  do  ? Neither  shalt  thou 
destroy  the  earth,  whom  frosts  and  ice  could  not  destroy.  The  vines  droop,  the 
trees  stagger,  the  broad  palmed  leaves  give  thee  their  moisture,  and  hang  down. 
But  every  night  the  dew  pities  them.  Yet,  there  are  flowers  that  look  thee  in  the 
eye,  fierce  Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not.  This  is  the  rejoicing  month  for  joyful 
insects.  If  our  unselfish  eye  would  behold  it,  it  is  the  most  populous  and  the  hap- 
piest month.  The  herds  plash  in  the  sedge  ; fish  seek  the  deeper  pools;  forest  fowl 
lead  out  their  young ; the  air  is  resonant  of  insect  orchestras,  each  one  carrying  his 
part  in  Nature’s  grand  harmony.  August,  thou  art  the  ripeness  of  the  year!  Thou 
art  the  glowing  centre  of  the  circle ! 

September  ! There  are  thoughts  in  thy  heart  of  death.  Thou  art  doing  a secret 
work,  and  heaping  up  treasures  for  another  year.  The  unborn  infant-buds  which 
thou  art  tending  are  more  than  all  the  living  leaves.  Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but 
worn  with  softened  pride.  More  dear,  less  beautiful  than  June,  thou  art  the  heart’s 
month.  Not  till  the  heats  of  summer  are  gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain,  do  we 
know  the  fulness  of  life.  Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and  clasp  the  glowing  palm 
of  August,  and  the  fruit-smelling  hand  of  October.  Thou  dividest  them  asunder, 
and  art  thyself  molded  of  them  both. 

October  ! Orchard  of  the  year ! Bend  thy  boughs  to  the  earth,  redolent  of 


242 


BEDOUIN  LOVE-SONG. 


glowing  fruit ! Ripened  seeds  shake  in  their  pods.  Apples  drop  in  the  stillest 
hours.  Leaves  begin  to  let  go  when  no  wind  is  out,  and  swing  in  long  waverings 
to  the  earth,  which  they  touch  without  sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till  winds  rake 
them,  and  heap  them  in  fence  corners.  When  the  gales  come  through  the  trees, 
the  yellow  leaves  trail,  like  sparks  at  night  behind  the  flying  engine.  The  woods 
are  thinner,  so  that  we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer,  as  we  lie  dreaming  on  the  yet 
warm  moss  by  the  singing  spring.  The  days  are  calm.  The  nights  are  tranquil. 
The  year’s  work  is  done.  She  walks  in  gorgeous  apparel,  looking  upon  her  long 
labor,  and  her  serene  eye  saith,  “ It  is  good.” 

November  ! Patient  watcher,  thou  art  asking  to  lay  down  thy  tasks.  Life,  to 
thee,  now,  is  only  a task  accomplished.  In  the  night-time  thou  liest  down,  and  the 
messengers  of  winter  deck  thee  with  hoar-frosts  for  thy  burial.  The  morning  looks 
upon  thy  jewels,  and  they  perish  while  it  gazes.  Wilt  thou  not  come,  O December  ? 

December  ! Silently  the  month  advances.  There  is  nothing  to  destroy,  but 
much  to  bury.  Bury,  then,  thou  snow,  that  slumberously  fallest  through  the  still 
air,  the  hedge-rows  of  leaves ! Muffle  thy  cold  wool  about  the  feet  of  shivering 
trees  ! Bury  all  that  the  year  hath  known,  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars,  that  never 
shine  as  they  do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the  work ! But  know,  O month  of 
destruction,  that  in  thy  constellation  is  set  that  Star,  whose  rising  is  the  sign,  for 
evermore,  that  there  is  life  in  death  ! Thou  art  the  month  of  resurrection.  In  thee, 
the  Christ  came.  Every  star,  that  looks  down  upon  thy  labor  and  toil  of  burial, 
knows  that  all  things  shall  come  forth  again.  Storms  shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep. 
Silence  shall  find  a voice.  Death  shall  live,  Life  shall  rejoice,  Winter  shall  break 
forth  and  blossom  into  Spring,  Spring  shall  put  on  her  glorious  apparel  and  be  called 
Summer.  It  is  life ! it  is  life  ! through  the  whole  year ! H.  W.  Beecher. 


BEDOUIN  LOVE-SONG. 

And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 

By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 

To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 
The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 

Open  the  door  of  thy  heart. 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 

And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


ROM  the  desert  I come  to  thee, 
On  a stallion  shod  with  fire ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 

I love  thee,  I love  but  thee  ! 

With  a love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 


Look  from  thy  window,  and  see 
My  passion  and  my  pain  ! 

I lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I faint  in  thy  disdain. 

Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 


TWO  PICTURES. 


243 


TWO  PICTURES. 


N old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide, 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side ; 

A bright-eyed  boy,  who  looks  from  out 
i The  door  with  woodbine  wreathed  about 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day : 


“ Oh,  if  1 could  but  fly  away 
From  this  dull  spot  the  world  to  see. 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 

How  happy  I should  be  1 ” 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 


244 


Amid  the  city’s  constant  din, 

A man  who  round  the  world  has  been, 
Who,  ’mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng, 
Is  thinking,  thinking  all  day  long : 

“ Oh,  could  I only  tread  once  more 


The  field-path  to  the  farm-house  door, 

The  old  green  meadow  could  I see, 

How  happy,  happy,  happy. 

How  happy  I should  be.” 

Anonymous. 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 


HERE’S  a magical  isle  in  the  River  of 
Time, 

Where  softest  of  echoes  are  straying ; 
And  the  air  is  as  soft  as  a musical  chime, 
Or  the  exquisite  breath  of  a tropical  clime 
When  June  with  its  roses  is  swaying. 

’Tis  where  Memory  dwells  with  her  pure  golden  hue, 
And  music  forever  is  flowing  : 

While  the  low-murmured  tones  that  come  trembling 
through 

Sadly  trouble  the  heart,  yet  sweeten  it  too, 

% As  the  south  wind  o’er  water  when  blowing. 

There  are  shadowy  halls  in  that  fairy -like  isle, 

Where  pictures  of  beauty  are  gleaming ; 

Yet  the  light  of  their  eyes,  and  their  sweet,  sunny 
smile, 

Only  flash  round  the  heart  with  a wildering  wile, 

And  leave  us  to  know  ’tis  but  dreaming. 

And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  Beautiful  Past, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  all  there  : 

There  are  beings  of  beauty  too  lovely  to  last ; 

There  are  blossoms  of  snow,  with  the  dust  o’er  them 
cast ; 

There  are  tresses  and  ringlets  of  hair. 


There  are  fragments  of  song  only  memory  sings, 

And  the  words  of  a dear  mother’s  prayer; 

There’s  a harp  long  unsought,  and  a lute  without 
strings — 

Hallowed  tokens  that  love  used  to  wear. 

E’en  the  dead — the  bright,  beautiful  dead — there  arise. 
With  their  soft,  flowing  ringlets  of  gold  : 

Though  their  voices  are  hushed,  and  o’er  their  sweet 
eyes, 

The  unbroken  signet  of  silence  now  lies, 

They  are  with  us  again,  as  of  old. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  hands  are  beckoning  us  there. 
And,  with  joy  that  is  almost  a pain, 

We  delight  to  turn  back,  and  in  wandering  there, 
Through  the  shadowy  halls  of  the  island  so  fair. 

We  behold  our  lost  treasures  again. 

Oh  ! this  beautiful  isle,  with  its  phantom-like  show. 

Is  a vista  exceedingly  bright : 

And  the  River  of  Time,  in  its  turbulent  flow, 

Is  oft  soothed  by  the  voices  we  heard  long  ago. 

When  the  years  were  a dream  of  delight. 

Anonymows. 


THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE. 


245 


THE  GAMBLER’S  WIFE. 

The  following  thrilling  and  effective  song 
was  given  with  splendid  effect,  by  Rus- 
sell, at  his  concerts.  It  is  the  production 
of  Dr.  Coates. 

ARK  is  the  night. 
How  dark  ! No 
light ! no  fire  ! 
Cold,  on  the  hearth, 
the  last  faint 
sparks  expire ! 
Shivering  she 
watches  by  the 
cradle  side, 

For  him  who 
pledged  her  love 
— last  year  a 
bride ! 

Hark ! ’Tis  his 
footstep!  No! — ’Tis  past! — 
’Tis  gone! 

Tick  ! — Tick  ! — How  wearily  the 
time  crawls  on ! 

Why  should  he  leave  me  thus? — 
He  once  was  kind  : 

And  I believed  ’twould  last  ! — 
How  mad  ! — How  blind  ! 

Rest  thee,  babe  ! — Rest  on  ! — ’Tis 
hunger’s  cry  ! 

Sleep  ! — For  there  is  no  food  ! — 
The  font  is  dry  ! 

Famine  and  cold  their  wearying 
work  have  done. 

My  heart  must  break  ! — And  thou  ! 

— The  clock  strikes  one  ! 

Hush  ! ’tis  the  dice-box  ! Yes  ! 

he’s  there  ! he’s  there  ! 

For  this — for  this  he  leaves  me  to 
despair ! 

Leaves  love  ! leaves  truth ! his  wife  ! his  child  ! for 
what  ? 

The  wanton’s  smile — the  villain — and  the  sot ! 


Yet  I’ll  not  curse  him.  No  ! ’tis  all  in  vain  j 

JTis  long  to  wait,  but  sure  he’ll  come  again ! 

And  I could  starve  and  bless  him  but  for  you, 

My  child  ! — his  child  ! Oh,  fiend  ! — The  clock  strikes 
two. 

Hark  ! How  the  sign-board  creaks  ! The  blasts  howl 
by. 

Moan  ! moan ! A dirge  swells  through  the  cloudy 
sky  ! 

Ha  ! ’tis  his  knock  ! — he  comes  ! — he  comes  once 
more ! 

*Tis  but  the  lattice  flaps ! Thy  hope  is  o’er- 

Can  he  desert  me  thus  ! He  knows  I stay 

Night  after  night,  in  loneliness  to  pray 

For  his  return — and  yet  he  sees  no  tear, 

No!  n It  cannot  be  ! He  will  be  here  ! 


Nestle  more  closely,  dear  one,  to  my  heart  ! 

Thou’rt  cold  ! Thou’rt  freezing ! But  we  will  not 
part ! 

Husband  ! I die  ! — Father  ! it  is  not  he  ! 

Oh,  God  ! protect  my  child  ! — The  clock  strikes  three. 


In  addition  to  the  above,  the  following  concluding  stanza, 
from  the  pen  of  another  gentleman,  himself  the  author  of  some 
fine  songs,  was  sung  by  Mr.  Russell. 

They’re  gone,  they’re  gone!  the  glimmering  spark 
hath  fled ! 

The  wife  and  child  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 

On  the  cold  earth,  outstretched  in  solemn  rest, 

The  babe  lay  frozen  on  its  mother’s  breast; 

The  gambler  came  at  last — but  all  was  o’er — 

Dread  silence  reign’d  around — the  clock  struck  four. 

Dr.  Coates. 


IT  KINDLES  ALL  MY  SOUL. 

“Urit  me  Patriae  decor.” 

T kindles  all  my  soul, 

My  country’s  loveliness ! Those  starry 
choirs 

That  watch  around  the  pole, 

And  the  moon’s  tender  light,  and  heavenly 
fires 

Through  golden  halls  that  roll, 

O chorus  of  the  night ! O planets,  sworn 
The  music  of  the  spheres 
To  follow  ! Lovely  watchers,  that  think  scorn 
To  rest  till  day  appears  ! 

Me,  for  celestial  homes  of  glory  born, 

Why  here,  O,  why  so  long, 

Do  ye  behold  an  exile  from  on  high  ? 

Here,  O ye  shining  throng, 

With  lilies  spread  the  mound  where  I shall  lie : 
Here  let  me  drop  my  chain, 

And  dust  to  dust  returning,  cast  away 
The  trammels  that  remain  ; 

The  rest  of  me  shall  spring  to  endless  day  ! 

From  the  Latin  ^/’Casimir  of  Poland. 


METRICAL  FEET. 

ROCHEE  trips  from  long  to  short; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 
Slow  Spondee  stalks ; strong  foot ! yet  ill 
able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  dactyl  trisyllable. 
Iambics  march  from  short  to  long — 

With  a leap  and  a bound  the  swift  Anapaest* 
throng ; 

One  syllable  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side, 
Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a stately  stride 
First  and  last  being  long,  middle  short,  Amphi 
macer 

Strikes  his  thundering  hoofs  like  a proud  high-bred 
racer. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


246 


A SERMON  WITHOUT  A TEXT. 


A SERMON  WITHOUT  A TEXT. 

ITTING  in  a station  the  other  day  I had  a little  sermon 
preached  in  the  way  I like,  and  I’ll  report  it  for  your 
benefit,  because  it  taught  me  one  of  the  lessons  which 
we  all  should  learn,  and  taught  it  in  such  a natural, 
simple  way  that  no  one  could  forget  it. 

It  was  a bleak,  snowy  day.  The  train  was  late ; the 
ladies’  room  dark  and  smoky,  and  the  dozen  women,  old 
and  young,  who  sat  waiting  impatiently,  all  looked  cross, 
low-spirited,  or  stupid.  I felt  all  three,  and  thought,  as 
I looked  around,  that  my  fellow-beings  were  a very  un- 
amiable,  uninteresting  set. 

Just  then  a forlorn  old  woman,  shaking  with  palsy,  came  in 
with  a basket  of  wares  for  sale,  and  went  about  mutely  offering 
them  to  the  sitters.  Nobody  bought  anything,  and  the  poor  old 
soul  stood  blinking  at  the  door  a minute,  as  if  reluctant  to  go  out 
into  the  bitter  storm  again. 

She  turned  presently  and  poked  about  the  room  as  if  trying  to 
find  something;  and  then  a pale  lady  in  black,  who  lay  as  if  asleep 
on  a sofa,  opened  her  eyes,  saw  the  old  woman,  and  instantly  asked 
in  a kind  tone,  “ Have  you  lost  anything,  ma’am?” 

“ No,  dear.  I’m  looking  for  the  heatin’  place  to  have  a warm 
’fore  I goes  out  again.  My  eyes  is  poor,  and  I don’t  seem  to  find 
the  furnace  nowheres.” 

“ Here  it  is ; ” and  the  lady  led  her  to  the  steam  radiator,  placed 
a chair,  and  showed  her  how  to  warm  her  feet. 

“ Well,  now,  is  not  that  nice?”  said  the  old  woman,  spreading  her  ragged  mittens 
to  dry.  “Thank  you,  dear;  this  is  comfortable,  isn’t  it?  I’m  most  froze  to-day, 
bein’  lame  and  wimbly,  and  not  selling  much  makes  me  kind  of  down-hearted.” 

The  lady  smiled,  went  to  the  counter,  bought  a cup  of  tea  and  some  sort  of  food, 
carried  it  herself  to  the  old  woman,  and  said  as  respectfully  and  kindly  as  if  the  poor 
woman  had  been  dressed  in  silk  and  fur,  “Won’t  you  have  a cup  of  hot  tea?  It’s 
very  comforting  such  a day  as  this.” 

“ Sakes  alive ! do  they  give  tea  to  this  depot  ? ” cried  the  old  lady  in  a tone  of  in- 
nocent surprise  that  made  a smile  go  round  the  room,  touching  the  gloomiest  face 
like  a streak  of  sunshine.  “ Well,  now,  this  is  jest  lovely,”  added  the  old  lady,  sip- 
ping away  with  a relish.  “ This  does  warm  my  heart ! ” 

While  she  refreshed  herself,  telling  her  story  meanwhile,  the  lady  looked  over  the 
poor  little  wares  in  the  basket,  bought  soap  and  pins,  shoe-strings  and  tape,  and 
cheered  the  old  soul  by  paying  well  for  them. 

As  I watched  her  doing  this  I thought  what  a sweet  face  she  had,  though  I’d  con- 
sidered her  rather  plain  before.  I felt  dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself  that  I had  grimly 


THE  SUNSET  CITY. 


24  7 


shaken  my  head  when  the  basket  was  offered  to  me;  and  as  I saw  the  look  of  interest, 
sympathy,  and  kindliness  come  into  the  dismal  faces  all  around  me,  I did  wish  that 
I had  been  the  magician  to  call  it  out. 

It  was  only  a kind  word  and  a friendly  act,  but  somehow  it  brightened  that  dingy 
room  wonderfully.  It  changed  the  faces  of  a dozen  women,  and  I think  it  touched 
a dozen  hearts,  for  I saw  many  eyes  follow  the  plain,  pale  lady  with  sudden  respect ; 
and  when  the  old  woman  got  up  to  go,  several  persons  beckoned  to  her  and  bought 
something,  as  if  they  wanted  to  repair  their  first  negligence. 

Old  beggar-women  are  not  romantic,  neither  are  cups  of  tea,  boot-laces  and  col- 
ored soap.  There  were  no  gentlemen  present  to  be  impressed  with  the  lady’s  kind 
act,  so  it  wasn’t  done  for  effect,  and  no  possible  reward  could  be  received  for  it 
except  the  ungrammatical  thanks  of  a ragged  old  woman. 

But  that  simple  little  charity  was  as  good  as  a sermon  to  those  who  saw  it,  and  I 
think  each  traveller  went  on  her  way  better  for  that  half-hour  in  the  dreary  station. 
I can  testify  that  one  of  them  did,  and  nothing  but  the  emptiness  of  her  purse  pre- 
vented her  from  “ comforting  the  heart”  of  every  forlorn  old  woman  she  met  for  a 
week  after  Louisa  M.  Alcott. 


THE  SUNSET  CITY. 


HERE’S  a city  that  lies  in  the  Kingdom  of 
Clouds, 

In  the  glorious  country  on  high, 

Which  an  azure  and  silvery  curtain  en- 
shrouds, 

To  screen  it  from  mortal  eye  ; 

A city  of  temples  and  turrets  of  gold, 

That  gleam  by  a sapphire  sea, 

Like  jewels  more  splendid  than  earth  may  behold, 
Or  are  dreamed  of  by  you  and  by  me. 

And  about  it  are  highlands  of  amber  that  reach 
Far  away  till  they  melt  in  the  gloom ; 

And  waters  that  hem  an  immaculate  beach 
With  fringes  of  luminous  foam. 

Aerial  bridges  of  pearl  there  are, 

And  belfries  of  marvellous  shapes, 

And  lighthouses  lit  by  the  evening  star, 

That  sparkle  on  violet  capes  ; 


And  hanging  gardens  that  far  away 
Enchantedly  float  aloof ; 

Rainbow  pavilions  in  avenues  gay, 

And  banners  of  glorious  woof ! 

When  the  Summer  sunset’s  crimsoning  fires 
Are  aglow  in  the  western  sky, 

The  pilgrim  discovers  the  domes  and  spires 
Of  this  wonderful  city  on  high ; 

And  gazing  enrapt  as  the  gathering  shade 
Creeps  over  the  twilight  lea, 

Sees  palace  and  pinnacle  totter  and  fade, 

And  sink  in  the  sapphire  sea ; 

Till  the  vision  loses  by  slow  degrees 
The  magical  splendor  it  wore  ; 

The  silvery  curtain  is  drawn,  and  he  sees 
The  beautiful  city  no  more  ! 

Henry  Sylvester  Cornwell. 


248 


THE  FACE  AGAINST  THE  PANE. 


THE  FACE  AGAINST  THE  PANE. 


ABEL,  little  Mabel, 

With  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night 
And  sees  the  Beacon  Light 
A-trembling  in  the  rain. 
She  hears  the  sea-birds  screech, 
And  the  breakers  on  the  beach 
Making  moan,  making  moan. 
And  the  wind  about  the  eaves 
Of  the  cottage  sobs  and  grieves ; 
And  the  willow-tree  is  blown 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 

Till  it  seems  like  some  old  crone 
Standing  out  there  all  alone, 

With  her  woe, 

Wringing,  as  she  stands, 


Her  gaunt  and  palsied  hands! 
While  Mabel,  timid  Mabel, 
With  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night, 
And  sees  the  Beacon  Light 
A-trembling  in  the  rain. 


Set  the  table,  maiden  Mabel, 

And  make  the  cabin  warm; 

Your  little  fisher-lover 
Is  out  there  in  the  storm, 

And  your  father — you  are  weeping  l 
O Mabel,  timid  Mabel, 

Go,  spread  the  supper-table. 

And  set  the  tea  a-steeping. 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 


249 


Your  lover’s  heart  is  brave: 

His  boat  is  staunch  and  tight, 

And  your  father  knows  the  perilous  reef 
That  makes  the  water  white. 

— But  Mabel,  darling  Mabel, 

With  face  against  the  pane, 

Looks  out  across  the  night 
At  the  Beacon  in  the  rain. 

The  heavens  are  veined  with  fire ! 

And  the  thunder,  how  it  rolls ! 

In  the  killings  of  the  storm 
The  solemn  church-bell  tolls 
For  lost  souls ! 

But  no  sexton  sounds  the  knell 
In  that  belfry  old  and  high ; 

Unseen  fingers  sway  the  bell 
As  the  wind  goes  tearing  by ! 

How  it  tolls  for  the  souls 
Of  the  sailors  on  the  sea! 

God  pity  them,  God  pity  them, 
Wherever  they  may  be  ! 

God  pity  wives  and  sweethearts 
Who  wait  and  wait  in  vain  ! 

And  pity  little  Mabel, 

With  face  against  the  pane. 

A boom  ! — the  Lighthouse  gun ! 

(How  its  echo  rolls  and  rolls ! ) 

’Tis  to  warn  the  home-bound  ships 
Off  the  shoals ! 

See  ! a rocket  cleaves  the  sky 
From  the  Fort — a shaft  of  light ! 

See  ! it  fades,  and,  fading,  leaves 
Golden  furrows  on  the  night ! 


What  made  Mabel’s  cheek  so  pale  ? 

What  made  Mabel’s  lips  so  white  ? 

Did  she  see  the  helpless  sail 
That,  tossing  here  and  there, 

Like  a feather  in  the  air, 

Went  down  and  out  of  sight  ? 

Down,  down,  and  out  of  sight ! 

Oh,  watch  no  more,  no  more, 

With  face  against  the  pane ; 

You  cannot  see  the  men  that  drown 
By  the  Beacon  in  the  rain  ! 

From  a shoal  of  richest  rubies 

Breaks  the  morning  clear  and  cold; 

And  the  angel  on  the  village  spire, 
Frost-touched,  is  bright  as  gold. 

Four  ancient  fishermen, 

In  the  pleasant  autumn  air, 

Come  toiling  up  the  sands, 

With  something  in  their  hands— 

Two  bodies  stark  and  white, 

Ah,  so  ghastly  in  the  light, 

With  sea- weed  in  their  hair ! 

O ancient  fishermen, 

Go  up  to  yonder  cot ! 

You’ll  find  a little  child, 

With  face  against  the  pane, 

Who  looks  toward  the  beach, 

And,  looking,  sees  it  not. 

She  will  never  watch  again ! 

Never  watch  and  weep  at  night! 

For  those  pretty,  saintly  eyes 
Look  beyond  the  stormy  skies, 

And  they  see  the  Beacon  Light. 

Thomas  Baily  Aldrich* 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 


HEN  falls  the  soldier  brave 

Dead — at  the  feet  of  wrong — 

The  poet  sings,  and  guards  his  grave 
With  sentinels  of  song. 

Songs,  march  ! he  gives  command, 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true  ; 

The  living  and  dead  of  the  Conquered  Land 
Have  now  no  guards  save  you. 

Grave  Ballads ! .mark  ye  well ! 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust ! 

Go  ! halt ! by  the  fields  where  warriors  fell 
Rest  arms  ! and  guard  their  dust. 

List,  Songs  ! your  watch  is  long  ! 

The  soldier’s  guard  was  brief, 

Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong, 

Ye  may  not  seek  relief. 

Go  ! wearing  the  gray  of  grief ! 

Go  ! watch  o’er  the  Dead  in  Gray  ! 

Go  guard  the  private  and  guard  t^e  chief, 

And  sentinel  their  clay  ! 


And  the  songs,  in  stately  rhyme, 

And  with  softly  sounding  tread, 

Go  forth,  to  watch  for  a time — a time, 

Where  sleep  the  Deathless  Dead. 

And  the  songs,  like  funeral  dirge, 

In  music  soft  and  low, 

Sing  round  the  graves — whilst  hot  tears  surge 
From  hearts  that  are  homes  of  wee. 

What  though  no  sculptured  shaft 
Immortalize  each  brave  ? 

What  though  no  monument  epitaphed 
Be  built  above  each  grave  ? 

When  marble  wears  away, 

And  monuments  are  dust — 

The  songs  that  guard  our  soldiers’  clay 
Will  still  fulfil  their  trust. 

With  lifted  head,  and  steady  tread. 

Like  stars  that  guard  the  skies, 

Go  watch  each  bed,  where  rest  the  dead, 

Brave  Songs  ! with  sleepless  eyes. 

Abram  J.  Ryan*. 


250 


IN  THE  HARBOR. 


“V> 


IN  THE  HARBOR. 

5^253*51|0  for  a sail  this 
yy  mornin’? — 

Jj  This  way,  yer 
Sj  honor,  please. 

Weather  about  ? Lor*  bless  you ! only 
a pleasant  breeze. 

My  boat’s  that  there  in  the  harbor,  and  the  man 
aboard’s  my  mate. 

Jump  in,  and  I’ll  row  you  out,  sir;  that’s  her,  the 
Crazy  Kate. 

Queer  name  for  a boat,  you  fancy ; well,  so  it  is,  may 
be, 

But  Crazy  Kate  and  her  story’s  the  talk  o’  the  place, 
you  see ; 

And  me  and  my  pardner  knowed  her — knowed  her 
all  her  life ; 

We  was  both  on  us  asked  to  the  weddin’  when  she 
was  made  a wife. 

Her  as  our  boat’s  named  arter  was  famous  far  and 
wide ; 

For  years  in  all  winds  and  weathers  she  haunted  the 
harbor  side, 

With  her  great  wild  eyes  a-starin’  and  a-strainin’ 
across  the  waves, 

Waitin’  for  what  can’t  happen  till  the  dead  come  out 
o’  their  graves. 


She  was  married  to  young  Ned  Garling,  a big,  brown 
fisher-lad ; 

One  week  a bride,  and  the  next  one  a sailor’s  widow 
and  mad. 

They  were  married  one  fearful  winter  as  widowed 
many  a wife ; 

He’d  a smile  for  all  the  lasses ; but  she’d  loved  him 
all  her  life. 

A rollickin’,  gay  young  fellow,  we  thought  her  too 
good  for  him ; 

He’d  been  a bit  wild  and  careless — but,  married  all 
taut  and  trim, 

We  thought  as  he’d  mend  his  manners  when  he  won 
the  village  prize, 

And  carried  her  off  in  triumph  before  many  a rival’s 
eyes. 

But  one  week  wed  and  they  parted ; he  went  with  the 
fisher  fleet — 

With  the  men  who  must  brave  the  tempest  that  the 
women  and  bairns  may  eat ; 

It’s  a rough  long  life  o’  party’s  is  the  life  o’  the  fishoe 
folk, 


IN  THE  HARBOR. 


251 


And  there’s  never  a winter  passes  but  some  gt>od 
wife’s  heart  is  broke. 

We’ve  a sayin’  among  us  sea  folk  as  few  on  us  dies  in 
bed ; 

Walk  through  our  little  churchyard,  and  read  the  tale 
of  our  dead ; 

It’s  mostly  the  bairns  and  the  women  as  is  restin’  un- 
der the  turf, 

For  half  o’  the  men  sleep  yonder  under  the  rollin’ 
surf. 

The  night  Kate  lost  her  husband  was  the  night  o’  the 
fearful  gale. 

She’d  stood  on  the  shore  that  mornin’,  and  had 
watched  the  tiny  sail 

As  it  faded  away  in  the  distance,  bound  for  the  coast 
of  France, 

And  the  fierce  wind  bore  it  swiftly  away  from  her 
anxious  glance. 

The  boats  that  had  sailed  that  mornin’  with  the  fleet 
were  half  a score, 

And  never  a soul  among  ’em  came  back  to  the  Eng- 
lish shore. 

There  was  wringin’  o’  hands  and  moanin’,  and  when 
they  spoke  o’  the  dead 

For  many  a long  day  after  the  women’s  eyes  were  red. 

Kate  heard  it  as  soon  as  any — the  fate  of  her  fisher 
lad — 

But  her  eyes  were  wild  and  tearless ; she  went  slowly 
and  surely  mad. 

“ He  isn’t  drowned,”  she  would  murmur ; “ he  will 
come  again  some  day,” 

And  her  lips  shaped  the  self-same  story  as  the  long 
years  crept  away. 


Spring,  and  summer,  and  autumn,  in  the  fiercest  win- 
ter gale, 

Would  Crazy  Kate  stand  watchin’  for  the  glint  of  a 
far-off  sail ; 

Stand  by  the  hour  together,  and  murmur  her  hus- 
band’s name ; 

For  twenty  years  she  watched  there,  for  the  boat  that 
never  came. 

She  counted  the  years  as  nothin’ ; the  shock  that  had 
sent  her  mad 

Had  left  her  love  forever,  a brave,  young,  handsome 
lad. 

She  thought  one  day  she  should  see  him,  just  as  he 
said  good-by 

When  he  leaped  in  his  boat  and  vanished,  where  the 
waters  touched  the  sky. 

She  was  but  a lass  when  it  happened ; — the  last  time 
I saw  her  there, 

The  first  faint  streaks  o’  silver  had  come  in  her  jet- 
black  hair : 

And  then  a miracle  happened — her  mad,  weird  words 
came  right, 

For  the  fisher  lad  came  ashore,  sir,  one  wild  and 
stormy  night. 

We  were  all  of  us  watchin’,  waitin’,  for  at  dusk  we 
heard  a cry, 

A far-off  cry,  round  the  headland,  and  strained  was 
every  eye — 

Strained  through  the  deepenin’  darkness,  anc'  a boat 
was  ready  to  man, 

When,  all  of  a sudden,  a woman  down  to  the  surf-line 
ran. 

’Twas  Crazy  Kate.  In  a moment,  before  what  she 
meant  was  known, 


252 


ONLY  THE  CLOTHES  SHE  WORE. 


The  boat  was  out  in  the  tempest — and  she  was  in  it 
alone. 

She  was  out  of  sight  in  a second — but  over  the  sea 
came  a sound, 

The  voice  of  a woman  cryin’  that  her  long-lost  love 
was  found. 

A miracle,  sir ; for  the  woman  came  back  through  the 
ragin’  storm, 

And  there  in  the  boat  beside  her  was  lyin’  a lifeless 
form. 

She  leapt  to  the  beach  and  staggered,  cryin’,  “ Speak 
to  me,  husband,  Ned  ! ” 

And  the  light  of  our  lifted  lanterns  flashed  on  the  face 
o’  the  dead. 

It  was  him  as  had  sailed  away,  sir,  a miracle  sure  it 
seemed. 

We  looked  at  the  lad,  and  knowed  him,  and  fancied 
we  must  ha’  dreamed. 

It  was  twenty  years  since  we’d  seen  him — since  Kate, 
poor  soul,  went  mad, 

But  there  in  the  boat  that  evenin’  lay  the  same  brown, 
handsome  lad. 

Gently  we  took  her  from  him — for  she  moaned  that 
he  was  dead; 

We  carried  him  to  a cottage,  and  we  laid  him  on  a 
bed; 


But  Kate  came  pushin’  her  way  through,  and  sha 
clasped  the  lifeless  clay, 

And  we  hadn’t  the  heart  to  hurt  her,  so  we  couldn’t 
tear  her  away. 

The  news  of  the  miracle  travelled,  and  folks  came  far 
and  near, 

And  the  women  talked  of  spectres,  it  had  given  ’em 
quite  a skeer ; 

And  the  parson  he  came  with  the  doctor  down  to  the 
cottage,  quick — 

They  thought  as  us  sea-folks’  fancy  had  played  our 
eyes  a trick. 

But  the  parson,  who’d  known  Kate’s  husband,  as  had 
married  ’em  in  the  church, 

When  he  seed  the  dead  lad’s  features  he  gave  quite  a 
sudden  lurch, 

And  his  face  was  as  white  as  linen,  for  a moment  it 
struck  him  dumb ; 

I half  expected  he’d  tell  us  as  the  Judgment  Day  was- 
come. 

The  Judgment  Day,  when  the  ocean,  they  say,  ’ull 
give  up  its  dead ; 

What  else  meant  those  unchanged  features,  though 
twenty  years  had  sped  ? 

George  R.  Sims. 


ONLY  THE  CLOTHES  SHE  WORE. 


HERE  is  the  hat 

With  the  blue  veil  thrown  ’round  it,  just  as 
they  found  it, 

Spotted  and  soiled,  stained  and  all  spoiled — 
Do  you  recognize  that  ? 

The  gloves,  too,  lie  there, 

And  in  them  still  lingers  the  shape  of  her  fingers, 
That  some  one  has  pressed,  perhaps,  and  caressed, 

So  slender  and  fair. 

There  are  the  shoes, 

With  their  long  silken  laces,  still  bearing  traces, 

To  the  toe’s  dainty  tip,  of  the  mud  of  the  slip, 

The  slime  and  the  ooze. 

There  is  the  dress, 

Like  the  blue  veil,  all  dabbled,  discolored  and  drab- 
bled— 

This  you  should  know  without  doubt,  and,  if  so, 

All  else  you  may  guess. 

There  is  the  shawl, 

With  the  striped  border,  hung  next  in  order, 

Soiled  hardly  less  than  the  white  muslin  dress, 

And — that  is  all. 

Ah,  here  is  a ring 

We  were  forgetting,  with  a pearl  setting; 

There  was  only  this  one — name  or  date  ? — none  ?— 
A frail,  pretty  thing; 


A keepsake,  maybe, 

The  gift  of  another,  perhaps  a brother, 

Or  lover,  who  knows  ? him  her  heart  chose, 

Or  was  she  heart- free  ? 

Does  the  hat  there, 

With  the  blue  veil  around  it,  the  same  as  they  found  it* 
Summon  up  a fair  face  with  just  a trace 
Of  gold  in  the  hair  ? 

Or  does  the  shawl, 

Mutely  appealing  to  some  hidden  feeling, 

A form,  young  and  slight,  to  your  mind’s  sight 
Clearly  recall  ? 

A month  now  has  passed, 

And  her  sad  history  remains  yet  a mystery, 

But  these  we  keep  still,  and  shall  keep  them  until 
Hope  dies  at  last. 

Was  she  a prey 

Of  some  deep  sorrow  clouding  the  morrow, 

Hiding  from  view  the  sky’s  happy  blue  ? 

Or  was  there-  foul  play  ? 

Alas ! who  may  tell  ? 

Some  one  or  other,  perhaps  a fond  mother, 

May  recognize  these  when  her  child’s  clothes  she  sees; 
Then — will  it  be  well  ? 

N.  G.  Shepherd. 


HOMEWARD. 


253 


HOMEWARD. 


HE  day  dies  slowly  in  the  western  sky; 

The  sunset  splendor  fades,  and  wan  and 
cold 

The  far  peaks  wait  the  sunrise  ; cheerily 
The  eoatherd  calls  his  wanderers  to  their 
fold. 

My  weary  soul,  that  fain  would  cease  to  roam, 
Take  eomfort ; evening  bringeth  all  things  home. 


Homeward  the  swift-winged  seagull  takes  its  flight; 

The  ebbing  tide  breaks  softly  on  the  sand ; 

The  sunlit  boats  draw  shoreward  for  the  night ; 

The  shadows  deepen  over  sea  and  land ; 

Be  still,  my  soul,  thine  hour  shall  also  come; 
Behold,  oife  evening  God  shall  lead  thee  horn®. 

Anonymous. 


254 


NO  RELIGION  WITHOUT  MYSTERIES. 


HO  RELIGION  WITHOUT  MYSTERIES. 

HERE  is  nothing  beautiful,  sweet,  or  grand  in  life,  but  in  its 
mysteries.  The  sentiments  which  agitate  us  most  strongly 
are  enveloped  in  obscurity ; modesty,  virtuous  love,  sincere 
friendship,  have  all  their  secrets,  with  which  the  world  must 
not  be  made  acquainted.  Hearts  which  love  understand 
each  other  by  a word ; half  of  each  is  at  all  times  open  to 
the  other.  Innocence  itself  is  but  a holy  ignorance,  and  the 
most  ineffable  of  mysteries.  Infancy  is  only  happy,  because 
it  as  yet  knows  nothing ; age  miserable,  because  it  has  nothing 
more  to  learn.  Happily  for  it,  when  the  mysteries  of  life  are  end- 
ing, those  of  immortality  commence. 

If  it  is  thus  with  the  sentiments,  it  is  assuredly  not  less  so  with 
the  virtues  ; the  most  angelic  are  those  which,  emanating  directly 
from  the  Deity,  such  as  charity,  love  to  withdraw  themselves  from 
all  regards,  as  if  fearful  to  betray  their  celestial  origin. 

If  we  turn  to  the  understanding,  we  shall  find  that  the  pleasures 
of  thought,  also,  have  a certain  connection  with  the  mysterious. 
To  what  sciences  do  we  unceasingly  return  ? To  those  which 
always  leave  something  still  to  be  discovered,  and  fix  our  regards 
on  a perspective  which  is  never  to  terminate.  If  we  wander  in  the 
desert,  a sort  of  instinct  leads  us  to  shun  the  plains  where  the  eye 
embraces  at  once  the  whole  circumference  of  nature,  to  plunge  into  forests — those 
forests — the  cradle  of  religion,  whose  shades  and  solitudes  are  filled  with  the  recol- 
lection of  prodigies,  where  the  ravens  and  the  doves  nourished  the  prophets  and 
fathers  of  the  church.  If  we  visit  a modern  monument,  whose  origin  or  destination 
is  known,  it  excites  no  attention ; but,  if  we  meet  on  a desert  isle,  in  the  midst  of  the 
ocean,  with  a mutilated  statue  pointing  to  the  west,  with  its  pedestal  covered  with 
hieroglyphics,  and  worn  by  the  winds,  what  a subject  of  meditation  is  presented 
to  the  traveler ! Everything  is  concealed,  everything  is  hidden  in  the  universe. 
Man  himself  is  the  greatest  mystery  of  the  whole.  Whence  comes  the  spark  which 
we  call  existence,  and  in  what  obscurity  is  it  to  be  extinguished  ? The  Eternal  has 
placed  our  birth,  and  our  death,  under  the  form  of  two  veiled  phantoms,  at  the  two 
extremities  of  our  career;  the  one  produces  the  inconceivable  gift  of  life,  which  the 
other  is  ever  ready  to  devour. 

It  is  not  surprising,  then,  considering  the  passion  of  the  human  mind  for  the 
mysterious,  that  the  religions  of  every  country  should  have  had  their  impenetrable 
secrets.  God  forbid  ! that  I should  compare  the  mysteries  of  the  true  faith,  or  the 
unfathomable  depths  of  the  Sovereign  in  the  heavens,  to  the  changing  obscurities 
of  those  gods  which  are  the  work  of  human  hands.  All  that  I observe  is,  that  there 
is  no  religion  without  mysteries,  and  that  it  is  they,  with  the  sacrifice,  which  every- 
where constitute  the  essence  of  the  worship.  Chateaubriand. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


255 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


PART  FIRST. 


WEET  Auburn ! loveliest  village  of  the 
plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labor- 
ing swain, 

Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  Summer’s  lingering  blooms  delayed : 
Dear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I loitered  o’er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 

How  often  have  I paused  on  every  charm — 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seals  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  I 

How  often  have  I blessed  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  aid  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ! 

While  many  a pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 

And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  : 

The  dancing  pair,  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  these  looks  reprove  : 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village ! sports  like  these 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to  please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 

Thy  sports  are  fled  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  : 
Amid  thy  bowers  the  tyrant’s  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green ; 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 

And  half  a tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 


Along  thy  glades,  a solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 

Amid  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o’ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler’s  hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade ; 

A breath  can  make  them,  as  a breath  has  made. 

But  a bold  peasantry,  their  country’s  pride, 

When  once  destroyed  can  never  be  supplied. 

A time  there  was,  ere  England’s  griefs  began, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man; 

For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 

Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 

His  best  companions,  innocence-  and  health ; 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered  : trade’s  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose ; 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scenes 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn ! parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s  power. 

Here,  as  I take  my  solitary  rounds, 

Amid  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 

And,  many  a year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorne  grew. 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  shar« — 

I still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 


256 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 

I still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 

Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I felt  and  all  I saw ; 

And  as  a hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 

I still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O blessed  retirement ! friend  to  life’s  decline, 

Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 

How  blessed  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 

A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations  try, 

And,  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 

Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 

And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

PART  ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year ; 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his 
place. 

Unskillful  he  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  : 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train : 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed. 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were 
won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began! 

Thus,  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 

And  e’en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue’s  side ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all. 
And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 


Sweet  was  the  sound  when  oft,  at  evening’s  close. 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  : 

There,  as  I passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below; 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young; 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool, 

The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school; 

The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  : 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 

And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 

No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 

But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled  : 

All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 


He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 

E’en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  expressed ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 

With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school : 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view  : 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he; 


Sweet  Auburn  ! parent  of  the  blissful  hour,  Sweet  was  the  sound  when  oft,  at  evening’s  close, 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s  power.  Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose : 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train,  There,  as  I passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain.  The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  belo\ys 


17 


(257) 


258 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew— 

’Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e’en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For  e’en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.  The  very  spot 
Where  many  a time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  in- 
spired, 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place ; 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor. 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 

PART 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man’s  joys  increase,  the  poor’s  decay, 

’Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a splendid  and  a happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards  e’en  beyond  the  miser’s  wish  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

Yet  count  our  gains.  This  wealth  is  but  a name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss.  The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park’s  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  hal-f  their 
growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies, 

While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 

Ranged  o’er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors  ! could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale, 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  prevail ; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  learn  to  hear; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed. 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 

And  e’en  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

THIRD. 

But  when  those  charms  are  past — for  charms  are 
frail — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress ; — 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed, 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed ; 

But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land. 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a garden  and  a grave. 

Where,  then,  ah  ! where  shall  poverty  reside. 

To  escape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  Pride  ? 

If  to  some  common’s  fenceless  limits  strayed, 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 

And  e’en  the  bare -worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  Pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature’s  woe. 

Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There,  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomp  dis- 
play, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


259 


There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way  ; 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  Grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e’er  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah  ! turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female  lies : 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 

Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer’s  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 
shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 

At  proud  men’s  doors  they  ask  a little  bread  ! 

Ah,  no.  To  distant  climes,  a dreary  scene, 

Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  : 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 

And  savage  men,  more  murderous  still  than  they  ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene — 

The  cooling  f>rook,  the  grassy- vested  green, 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 

That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven ! what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting 
day 

That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 

Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 

And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 

Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep  ! 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others’  woe; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 


His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a lover’s  for  her  father’s  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 

And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

Oh,  Luxury  ! thou  cursed  by  Heaven’s  decree, 

How  ill-exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  5 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 

Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 

Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 

A bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe  ; 

Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a ruin  round. 

E’en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 

E’en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I stand, 

I see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale, 

Downward  they  move,  a melancholy  band, 

Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 

And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there; 

And  Piety,  with  wishes  placed  above, 

And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry  ! thou  loveliest  maid. 

Still  first  to  fly,  where  sensual  joys  invade  ! 

Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 

To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  Fame  : 

Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ; 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 

That  found’st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep’st  me  so. 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well. 

Farewell ; and  oh  ! where’er  thy  voice  be  tried. 

On  Torno’s  cliffs  or  Pambamarca’s  side, 

Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime ; 

And  slighted  Truth,  with  thy  persuasive  strain, 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 

Teach  him,  that  States,  of  native  strength  possessed. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed ; 

That  trade’s  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away  ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Goldsmith. 


26o 


THE  WOODS  OF  TENNESSEE. 


THE  WOODS  OF  TENNESSEE. 


HE  whip-poor-will  is  calling 

From  its  perch  on  splintered  limb, 
And  the  plaintive  notes  are  echoing 
Through  the  isles  of  the  forest  dim ; 
The  slanting  threads  of  starlight 
Are  silvering  shrub  and  tree, 

And  the  spot  where  the  loved  are  sleeping, 
In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

The  leaves  are  gently  rustling, 

But,they’re  stained  with  a tinge  of  red, 
For  they  proved  to  many  a soldier 
Their  last  and  lonely  bed. 

As  they  prayed  in  mortal  agony 
To  God  to  set  them  free, 

Death  touched  them  with  his  finger 
In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

In  the  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded, 

Ah  me  ! alas  ! we  saw 
The  name  of  our  noble  brother, 

Who  went  to  the- Southern  war. 

He  fell  in  the  tide  of  battle 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  “ Ilatchie,” 


And  rests  ’neath  the  wild  grape  arbors 
In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

There’s  many  still  forms  lying 
In  their  forgotten  graves, 

On  the  green  slope  of  the  hillsides, 

Along  Potomac’s  waves ; 

But  the  memory  will  be  ever  sweet 
Of  him  so  dear  to  me, 

On  his  country’s  altar  offered, 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

Anonymous, 

MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

(Z Cirj  /uov  Gag  ayaTru.)  * 

AID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 

Give,  O give  me  back  my  heart ! 

Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 

Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 

Hear  my  vow  before  I go, 

Zg)?]  /uov  Gag  ayairo). 


* My  life,  I love  th£e. 


SEVEN  AGES  OF  MAN. 


26l 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 

Wooed  by  each  ^gean  wind  ; 

By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks’  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

/ iov  aag  ayaizu. 

By  that  lip  I long  to  taste  ; 

By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 

By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 


By  love’s  alternate  joy  a"nd  woe, 

Z U7/  fj,ov  aag  ayaizG). 

Maid  of  Athens  ! I am  gone. 

Think  of  me,  sweet  -!  when  alone. 

Though  I fly  to  Istambol, 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul ; 

Can  I cease  to  love  thee  ? No  ! 

Z urj  f. wv  aag  aycnrij. 

Byron. 


SEVEN  AGES  OF  MAN. 


HLL  the  world’s  a stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  play- 

They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many 
parts, 

His  acts  being  seven  ages.  At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse’s  arms. 


Then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  a snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.  And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress’  eyebrow.  Then,  a soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard. 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 


Even  in  the  cannon’s  mouth.  And  then  the  justice 
In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 

And  so  he  plays  his  part ; the  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon, 

With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 

Hi«  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a world  too  wide, 


For  his  shrunk  shank  ; and  his  big  manly  voice. 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.  Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion — 

^ns  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

Shakespeare. 


262 


THE  TRUE  USE  OF  WEALTH. 


THE  TRUE  USE  OF  WEALTH. 

HERE  is  a saying  which  is  in  all  good  men’s  mouths  ; namely,  that  they 
are  stewards  or  ministers  of  whatever  talents  are  intrusted  to  them. 
Only,  is  it  not  a strange  thing  that  while  we  more  or  less  accept  the 
meaning  of  that  saying,  so  long  as  it  is  considered  metaphorical,  we 
never  accept  its  meaning  in  its  own  terms?  You  know  the  lesson  is  given  us 
under  the  form  of  a story  about  money.  Money  was  given  to  the  servants  to  make 
use  of : the  unprofitable  servant  dug  in  the  earth,  and  hid  his  Lord’s  money.  Well, 
we  in  our  poetical  and  spiritual  application  of  this,  say  that  of  course  money  doesn’t 
mean  money — it  means  wit,  it  means  intellect,  it  means  influence  in  high  quarters, 
it  means  everything  in  the  world  except  itself. 

And  do  you  not  see  what  a pretty  and  pleasant  comeofif  there  is  for  most  of  us  in 
this  spiritual  application  ? Of  course,  if  we  had  wit,  we  would  use  it  for  the  good 
of  our  fellow-creatures ; but  we  haven’t  wit.  Of  course,  if  we  had  influence  with 
the  bishops,  we  would  use  it  for  the  good  of  the  church ; but  we  haven’t  any  in- 
fluence with  the  bishops.  Of  course,  if  we  had  political  power,  we  would  use  it  for 
the  good  of  the  nation ; but  we  have  no  political  power ; we  have  no  talents  in- 
trusted to  us  of  any  sort  or  kind.  It  is  true  we  have  a little  money,  but  the  parable 
can’t  possibly  mean  anything  so  vulgar  as  money ; our  money’s  our  own. 

I believe,  if  you  think  seriously  of  this  matter,  you  will  feel  that  the  first  and  most 
literal  application  is  just  as  necessary  a one  as  any  other — that  the  story  does  very 
specially  mean  what  it  says — plain  money ; and  that  the  reason  we  don’t  at  once 
believe  it  does  so,  is  a sort  of  tacit  idea  that  while  thought,  wit,  and  intellect,  and  all 
power  of  birth  and  position,  are  indeed  given  to  us,  and,  therefore,  to  be  laid  out  for 
the  Giver, — our  wealth  has  not  been  given  to  us ; but  we  have  worked  for  it,  and 
have  a right  to  spend  it  as  we  choose.  I think  you  will  find  that  is  the  real  sub- 
stance of  our  understanding  in  this  matter.  Beauty,  we  say,  is  given  by  God — it  is 
a talent ; strength  is  given  by  God — it  is  a talent ; but  money  is  proper  wages  for 
our  day’s  work — it  is  not  a talent,  it  is  a due.  We  may  justly  spend  it  on  ourselves, 
if  we  have  worked  for  it. 

And  there  would  be  some  shadow  of  excuse  for  this,  were  it  not  that  the  very 
power  of  making  the  money  is  itself  only  one  of  the  applications  of  that  intellect  or 
strength  which  we  confess  to  be  talents.  Why  is  one  man  richer  than  another  ? 
Because  he  is  more  industrious,  more  persevering,  and  more  sagacious.  Well,  who 
made  him  more  persevering  and  more  sagacious  than  others  ? That  power  of  en- 
durance, that  quickness  of  apprehension,  that  calmness  of  judgment,  which  enable 
him  to  seize  opportunities  that  others  lose,  and  persist  in  the  lines  of  conduct  in 
which  others  fail — are  these  not  talents  ? — are  they  not,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
world,  among  the  most  distinguished  and  influential  of  mental  gifts  ? 

And  is  it  not  wonderful,  that  while  we  should  be  utterly  ashamed  to  use  a superi- 
ority of  body  in  order  to  thrust  our  weaker  companions  aside  from  some  place  of 
advantage,  we  unhesitatingly  use  our  superiorities  of  mind  to  thrust  them  back  from 


THE  TRUE  USE  OF  WEALTH. 


263 


whatever  good  that  strength  of  mind  can  attain?  You  would  be  indignant  if  you 
saw  a strong  man  walk  into  a theatre  or  a lecture-room,  and,  calmly  choosing  the 
best  place,  take  his  feeble  neighbor  by  the  shoulder,  and  turn  him  out  of  it  into  the 
back  seats  or  the  street.  You  would  be  equally  indignant  if  you  saw  a stout  fellow 
thrust  himself  up  to  a table  where  some  hungry  children  are  being  fed,  and  reach 
his  arm  over  their  heads  and  take  their  bread  from  them. 

But  you  are  not  the  least-  indignant  if  when  a man  has  stoutness  of  thought  and 
swiftness  of  capacity,  and,  instead  of  being  long-armed  only,  has  the  much  greater 
gift  of  being  long-headed — you  think  it  perfectly  just  that  he  should  use  his  intellect 
to  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  all  the  other  men  in  the  town  who  are  in  the 
same  trade  with  him ; or  use  his  breadth  and  sweep  of  sight  to  gather  some  branch 
of  the  commerce  of  the  country  into  one  great  cobweb,  of  which  he  is  himself  the 
central  spider,  making  every  thread  vibrate  with  the  points  of  his  claws,  and  com- 
manding every  avenue  with  the  facets  of  his  eyes.  You  see  no  injustice  in  this. 

But  there  is  injustice;  and,  let  us  trust,  one  of  which  honorable  men  will  at  no 
very  distant  period  disdain  to  be  guilty.  In  some  degree,  however,  it  is  indeed  not 
unjust;  in  some  degree  it  is  necessary  and  intended.  It  is  assuredly  just  that  idle- 
ness should  be  surpassed  by  energy ; that  the  widest  influence  should  be  possessed 
by  those  who  are  best  able  to  wield  it ; and  that  a wise  man,  at  the  end  of  his  career, 
should  be  better  off  than  a fool.  But  for  that  reason,  is  the  fool  to  be  wretched, 
utterly  crushed  down,  and  left  in  all  the  suffering  which  his  conduct  and  capacity 
naturally  inflict  ? Not  so. 

What  do  you  suppose  fools  were  made  for?  That  you  might  tread  upon  them, 
and  starve  them,  and  get  the  better  of  them  in  every  possible  way  ? By  no  means. 
They  were  made  that  wise  people  might  take  care  of  them.  That  is  the  true  and 
plain  fact  concerning  the  relations  of  every  strong  and  wise  man  to  the  world  about 
him.  He  has  his  strength  given  him,  not  that  he  may  crush  the  weak,  but  that  he 
may  support  and  guide  them.  In  his  own  household  he  is  to  be  the  guide  and  the 
support  of  his  children ; out  of  his  household  he  is  still  to  be  the  father,  that  is,  the 
guide  and  support,  of  the  weak  and  the  poor ; not  merely  ol  the  meritoriously  weak 
and  the  innocently  poor,  but  of  the  guiltily  and  punishably  poor ; of  the  men  who 
ought  to  have  known  better — of  the  poor  who  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves. 

It  is  nothing  to  give  pension  and  cottage  to  the  widow  who  has  lost  her  son ; it 
is  nothing  to  give  food  and  medicine  to  the  workman  who  has  broken  his  arm,  or 
the  decrepit  woman  wasting  in  sickness.  But  it  is  something  to  use  your  time  and 
strength  in  war  with  the  waywardness  and  thoughtlessness  of  mankind ; to  keep  the 
erring  workman  in  your  service  till  you  have  made  him  an  unerring  one ; and  to 
direct  your  fellow-merchant  to  the  opportunity  which  his  dulness  would  have  lost. 

This  is  much ; but  it  is  yet  more,  when  you  have  fully  achieved  the  superiority 
which  is  due  to  you,  and  acquired  the  wealth  which  is  the  fitting  reward  of  your 
sagacity,  if  you  solemnly  accept  the  responsibility  of  it,  as  it  is  the  helm  and  guide 
of  labor  far  and  near.  For  you  who  have  it  in  your  hands  are  in  reality  the  pilots 


264 


MERCY. 


of  the  power  and  effort  of  the  State.  It  is  intrusted  to  you  as  an  authority  to  be  used 
for  good  or  evil,  just  as  completely  as  kingly  authority  was  ever  given  to  a prince, 
or  military  command  to  a captain.  And  according  to  the  quantity  of  it  you  have  in 
your  hands,  you  are  arbiters  of  the  will  and  work  of  the  nation  ; and  the  whole  issue, 
whether  the  work  of  the  State  shall  suffice  for  the  State  or  not,  depends  upon  you. 

You  may  stretch  out  your  sceptre  over  the  heads  of  the  laborers,  and  say  to  thems 
as  they  stoop  to  its  waving,  “Subdue  this  obstacle  that  has  baffled  our  fathers ; 
put  away  this  plague  that  consumes  our  children ; water  these  dry  places,  plough 
these  desert  ones,  carry  this  food  to  those  who  are  in  hunger ; carry  this  light  to 
those  who  are  in  darkness ; carry  this  life  to  those  who  are  in  death  ; ” or  on  the 
other  side  you  may  say : “ Here  am  I ; this  power  is  in  my  hand ; come,  build  a 
mound  here  for  me  to  be  throned  upon,  high  and  wide  ; come,  make  crowns  for  my 
head,  that  men  may  see  them  shine  from  far  away;  come,  weave  tapestries  for  my 
feet,  that  I may  tread  softly  on  the  silk  and  purple ; come,  dance  before  me,  that  I 
may  be  gay;  and  sing  sweetly  to  me,  that  I may  slumber;  so  shall  I live  in  joy, 
and  die  in  honor.”  And  better  than  such  an  honorable  death  it  were,  that  the  day 
had  perished  wherein  we  were  born. 

I trust  that  in  a little  while  there  will  be  few  of  our  rich  men  who,  through  care- 
lessness or  covetousness,  thus  forfeit  the  glorious  office  which  is  intended  for  their 
hands.  I said,  just  now,  that  wealth  ill-used  was  as  the  net  of  the  spider,  entangling 
and  destroying ; but  wealth  well-used  is  as  the  net  of  the  sacred  Fisher  who  gathers 
souls  of  men  out  of  the  deep.  A time  will  come — I do  not  think  it  is  far  from  us — * 
when  this  golden  net  of  the  world’s  wealth  will  be  spread  abroad  as  the  flaming 
meshes  of  morning  cloud  over  the  sky;  bearing  with  them  the  joy  of  light  and  the 
dew  of  the  morning,  as  well  as  the  summons  to  honorable  and  peaceful  toil. 

John  Ruskin. 


mercy. 

HE  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 

It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath : it  is  twice 
blessed ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that 
takes : 

’Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ; it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power 
Th’  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God’s 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.  Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 

That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  : we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  should  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.  William  Shakespeare. 


EVENING  HYMN. 


HE  day  is  past  and  gone, 

The  evening  shades  appear; 

Oh,  may  we  all  remember  well, 
The  night  of  death  draws  near. 

We  lay  our  garments  by, 

Upon  our  beds  to  rest ; 

So  death  will  soon  disrobe  us  all 
Of  what  we  here  possess. 

Lord,  keep  us  safe  this  night, 

Secure  from  all  our  fears; 

May  angels  guard  us  while  we  sleep 
Till  morning  light  appears. 

And  when  we  early  rise, 

And  view  th’  unwearied  sun, 

May  we  set  out  to  win  the  prize, 

And  after  glory  run. 

Anonymous. 


CHEQ'RTNG  WITH  PARTIAL  SHADE  THE  BEAMS  OF  NOON 


265 


HEQ’RING  with  partial  shade  the  beams 
of  noon, 

And  arching  the  gray  rock  with  wild  festoon, 
Here  its  gay  net-work  and  fantastic  twine, 
The  purple  cogul  threads  from  pine  to  pine ; 
And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breathe, 


Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 

There,  through  the  trunks,  with  moss  and  lichens  wbit4fc» 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light. 

And,  ’mid  the  cedar’s  darksome  boughs,  iUumes, 
With  instant  touch,  the  lory’s  scarlet  pinnies. 

Bovtles>. 


266 


THE  PA  UPER\S  DEATII-BED. 


O,  MY  LUVE’S  LIKE  A RED,  RED  ROSE. 

MY  Luve’s  like  a red,  red  rose 
That’s  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

O,  my  Luve’s  like  the  melodie 
That’s  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  l,uve  am  I : 

And  I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry  : 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun  : 

And  I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  ! 

And  I will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho’  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  HERO  OF  SUGAR  PINE 

TELL  me,  sergeant  of  Battery  B, 

O hero  of  Sugar  Pine, 

Some  glorious  deed  of  the  battle-field, 
Some  wonderful  feat  of  thine ; 

“ Some  skilful  move  when  the  fearful  game 
Of  battle  and  life  was  played 


On  yon  grimy  field,  whose  broken  squares 
In  scarlet  and  black  are  laid.” 

“ Ah  ! stranger,  here  at  my  gun  all  day 
I fought  till  my  final  round 
Was  spent,  and  I had  but  powder  left. 

And  never  a shot  to  be  found. 

So  I trained  my  gun  on  a rebel  piece; 

So  true  was  my  range  and  aim, 

A shot  from  his  cannon  entered  mine, 

And  finished  the  load  of  the  same ! ” 

“ Enough  ! O sergeant  of  Battery  B, 

O hero  of  Sugar  Pine  ! 

Alas ! I fear  that  thy  cannon’s  throat 
Can  swallow  much  more  than  mine ! ” 

Anonymous. 


THE  PAUPER’S  DEATH-BED. 

READ  softly,  bow  the  head, 

In  reverent  silence  bow ; 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger ! however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 

There’s  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar’s  roof, 

Lo ! Death  doth  keep  his  state. 

Enter,  no  crowds  attend  ; 

Enter,  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold. 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread ; 

One  silent  woman  stands, 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound, 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 

A sob  suppressed — again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

O change  ! O wondrous  change ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars— - 
This  moment,  there , so  low, 

So  agonized,  and  now — 

Beyond  the  stars. 

O change  ! stupendous  change ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod; 

The  sun  eternal  breaks, 

The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God ! 

Caroline  Anne  Bowles  Southey. 


KISSING  HER  HAIR. 


267 


MAY  IN  THE  WOODS. 


SONG:  ON  MAY  MORNING. 


OW  the  bright  morning  star,  day’s  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads 
with  her 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap 
throws 

The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 


Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire! 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milto*. 


KISSING  HER  HAIR. 


ISSING  her  hair,  I sat  against  her  feet  : 
Wove  and  unwove  it — wound,  and  found 
it  sweet ; 

1 Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down 
her  eyes, 

Deep  as  deep  flowers,  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound,  and  found  her  fair — 
Kissing  her  hair. 


Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me— 

Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea : 

What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers  ? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  Love  not  relish  worse! 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  Death  had  kissed  me  there— 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


268 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 


0 stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea — 

The  ship  was  still  as  she  might  be ; 

Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock. 

The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  rock; 

So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 

They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  holy  abbot  of  Aberbrothok 

Had  floated  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  rock ; 

On  the  waves  of  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung. 

And  louder  and  louder  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  tempest’s  swell. 

The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 

And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 

And  blessed  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  shone  so  gay — 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  : 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  sported  round. 

And  there  was  pleasure  in  their  sound. 

The  float  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen, 

A darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  walked  his  deck, 

And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring— 

It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 

His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess; 

But  the  rover’s  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float ; 

Quoth  he,  “ My  men,  pull  out  the  boat ; 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  rock, 

And  I’ll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok.” 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

Ama  to  the  Inchcape  rock  they  go ; 


Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a gurgling  sound; 

The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “ The  next  who  comes  to  the  rock 
Won’t  bless  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok.” 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  sailed  away — 

He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a day ; 

And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store. 

He  steers  his  course  to  Scotland’s  shore. 

So  thick  a haze  o’erspreads  the  sky 
They  could  not  see  the  sun  on  high ; 

The  wind  had  blown  a gale  all  day ; 

At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  rover  takes  his  stand  ; 

So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “ It  will  be  lighter  soon, 

For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon.” 

“ Canst  hear,”  said  one,  “ the  breakers  roar? 

For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 

Now  where  we  are  I cannot  tell, 

But  I wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell.” 

They  hear  no  sound;  the  swell  is  strong; 

Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along;. 

Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a shivering  shock— 

Alas ! it  is  the  Inchcape  rock ! 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  tore  his  hair; 

He  beat  himself  in  wild  despair. 

The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side ; 

The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  ever  in  his  dying  fear 

One  dreadful  sound  he  seemed  to  hear— 

A sound  as  if  the  Inchcape  bell 
The  evil  spirit  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  South*** 


NEW  YEAR'S  EYE. 


269 


NEW  YEAR’S  EVE. 

Founded  on  a prose  story  by  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


ITTLE  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  wanders  up  and 
down  the  street ; 

The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair,  the  frost  is  at  her 
feet.  ' 

The  rows  of  long,  dark  houses  without  look  cold 
and  damp, 

By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam,  by  the  flicker  of  the 
lamp. 

The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses,  the  wind  is  from  the  north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen,  and  no  one  looketh  forth. 
Within  those  dark,  damp  houses  are  merry  faces  bright, 
And  happy  hearts  are  watching  out  the  old  year’s  latest 
night. 

With  the  little  box  of  matches  she  could  not  sell  all  day, 
And  the  thin,  thin  tattered  mantle  the  wind  blows  every  way. 
She  clingeth  to  the  railing,  she  shivers  in  the  gloom — 
There  are  parents  sitting  snugly  by  the  firelight  in  the  room ; 
And  children  with  grave  faces  are  whispering  one  another 
=Of  presents  for  the  new  year,  for  father  or  for  mother. 

But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen,  and  no  one  hears  her  speak, 
No  breath  of  little  whispers  comes  warmly  to  her  cheek. 

No  little  arms  around  her : ah  me ! that  there  should  be. 
With  so  much  happiness  on  earth,  so  much  of  misery ! 

Sure  they  of  many  blessings  should  scatter  blessings  round, 
As  laden  boughs  in  autumn  fling  their  ripe  fruits  to  the 
ground. 

And  the  best  love  man  can  offer  to  the  God  of  love, 
be  sure, 

Is  kindness  to  his  little  ones,  and  bounty  to  his  poor. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  goes  coldly  on  her 
way ; 

There’s  no  one  looketh  out  at  her,  there’s  no  one  bids 
her  stay. 


And  she  thought  the  song  had  told  he  was  ever  with 
his  own ; 

And  all  the  poor  and  hungry  and  forsaken  ones  are 
his — 

“ How  good  of  Him  to  look  on  me  in  such  a place  as 
this ! ” 


Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate ; no  smile,  no  food,  no 
fire, 

But  children  clamorous  for  bread,  and  an  impatient 
sire. 

So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle  where  two  great  houses 
meet, 

And  she  curleth  up  beneath  her,  for  warmth,  her  little 
feet ; 

And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall,  and  on  the  colder 
sky, 

And  wonders  if  the  little  stars  are  bright  fires  up  on 
high. 

She  hears  a clock  strike  slowly,  up  in  a far  church 
tower, 

With  such  a sad  and  solemn  tone,  telling  the  midnight 
hour. 

And  she  remembered  her  of  tales  her  mother  used  to 
tell, 

And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang,  when  summer’s 
twilight  fell ; 

Of  good  men  and  of  angels,  and  of  the  Holy  Child, 

Who  was  cradled  in  a manger,  when  winter  was  most 
wild ; 

Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  desolate 
and  lone ; 


Colder  it  grows,  and  colder,  but  she  does  not  feel  it 
now, 

For  the  pressure  at  her  heart,  and  the  weight  upon  her 
brow; 

But  she  struck  one  little  match  on  the  wall  so  cold' 
and  bare, 

That  she  might  look  around  her,  and  see  if  He  were 
there. 

The  single  match  has  kindled,  and  by  the  light  it 
threw 

It  seemed  to  little  Gretchen  the  wall  was  rent  in  two ; 

And  she  could  see  folks  seated  at  a table  richly  spread, 

Wifh  heaps  of  goodly  viands,  red  wine  and  pleasant 
bread. 

She  could  smell  the  fragrant  savor,  she  could  hear 
what  they  did.  say, 

Then  all  was  darkness  once  again,  the  match  had 
burned  away. 

She  struck  another  hastily,  and  now  she  seemed  tc 
see 

Within  the  same  warm  chamber  a glorious  Christmas 
tree. 

The  branches  were  all  laden  with  things  that  children 
prize, 

Bright  gifts  for  boy  and  maiden,  she  saw  them  with 
her  eyes. 


270 


SPEECH  AND  SILENCE . 


And  she  almost  seemed  to  touch  them,  and  to  join  the 
welcome  shout, 

When  darkness  fell  around  her,  for  the  little  match 
was  out. 

Another,  yet  another,  she  had  tried — they  will  not 
light; 

Till  all  her  little  store  she  took,  and  struck  with  all 
her  might : 

And  the  whole  miserable  place  was  lighted  with  the 
glare, 

And  she  dreamed  there  stood  a little  child  before  her 
in  the  air. 

There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead,  a spear- 
wound  in  his  side, 

And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet,  and  in  his  hands 
spread  wide; 

And  he  looked  upon  her  gently,  and  she  felt  that  he 
had  known 

Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow — ay,  equal  to  her  own. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board  and  to  the  Christ- 
mas tree, 

Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said,  “ Will  Gretchen 
come  with  me  ? ” 

The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail,  she  felt  her  eye- 
balls swim. 


And  a ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears,  like  her  dead 
mother’s  hymn : 

And  she  folded  both  her  thin  white  hands,  and  turned 
from  that  bright  board, 

And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said,  “ With  thee,  with 
thee,  O Lord  ! ” 

The  chilly  winter  morning  breaks  up  in  the  dull 
skies 

On  the  city  wrapt  in  vapor,  on  the  spot  where  Gretchen 
lies. 


In  her  scant  and  tattered  garment,  with  her  back 
against  the  wall, 

She  sitteth  Cold  and  rigid,  she  answers  to  no  call. 

They  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully,  they  shuddered  as 
they  said, 

“ It  was  a bitter,  bitter  night ! the  child  is  frozen 
dead.” 

The  angels  sang  their  greeting  for  one  more  redeem’d 
from  sin ; 

Men  said,  “ It  was  a bitter  night;  would  no  one  let 
her  in  ? ” 

And  they  shivered  as  they  spoke  of  her,  and  sighed. 
They  could  not  see 

How  much  of  happiness  there  was  after  that  misery. 

Mary  Howitt. 


SPEECH  AND  SILENCE. 

E who  speaks  honestly  cares  not,  needs  not  care,  though  his  words  be 
preserved  to  remotest  time.  The  dishonest  speaker,  not  he  only  who 
purposely  utters  falsehoods,  but  he  who  does  not  purposely,  and  with 
sincere  heart,  utter  Truth,  and  Truth  alone ; who  babbles  he  knows  not 
what,  and  has  clapped  no  bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets  it  run  racket,  ejecting  chatter 
and  futility, — is  among  the  most  indisputable  malefactors  omitted,  or  inserted,  in  the 
Criminal  Calendar. 

To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  idle  speaking  is  precisely  the  beginning  of  all 
Hollowness,  Halfness,  Infidelity  (want  of  Faithfulness) ; the  genial  atmosphere  in 
which  rank  weeds  of  every  kind  attain  the  mastery  over  noble  fruits  in  man’s  life, 
and  utterly  choke  them  out : one  of  the  most  crying  maladies  of  these  days,  and  to 
be  testified  against,  and  in  all  ways  to  the  uttermost  withstood. 

Wise,  of  a wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow  depth,  was  that  old  precept : “ Watch 
thy  tongue  ; out  of  it  are  the  issues  of  Life  ! ” Man  is  properly  an  incarnated  word ; 
the  word  that  he  speaks  is  the  man  himself.  Were  eyes  put  into  our  head,  that  we 
might  see,  or  that  we  might  fancy,  and  plausibly  pretend,  we  had  seen  ? Was  the 
tongue  suspended  there,  that  it  might  tell  truly  what  we  had  seen,  and  make  man 
the  soul’s-brother  of  man;  or  only  that  it  might  utter  vain  sounds,  jargon,  soul-con- 
fusing, and  so  divide  man,  as  by  enchanted  walls  of  Darkness,  from  union  with  man  ? 

Thou  who  wearest  that  cunning,  heaven-made  organ,  a Tongue,  think  well  of  this. 
Speak  not,  I passionately  entreat  thee,  till  thy  thought  have  silently  matured  itself, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN’S  FIRST  GLANCING. 


271 


till  thou  have  other  than  mad  and  mad-making  noises  to  emit : hold  thy  tongue  till 
some  meaning  lie  behind,  to  set  it  wagging. 

Consider  the  significance  of  Silence  : it  is  boundless,  never  by  meditating  to  be 
exhausted,  unspeakably  profitable  to  thee  ! Cease  that  chaotic  hubbub,  wherein  thy 
own  soul  runs  to  waste,  to  confused  suicidal  dislocation  and  stupor ; out  of  Silence 
comes  thy  strength.  “ Speech  is  silvery,  Silence  is  golden  ; Speech  is  human. 
Silence  is  divine.” 

Fool ! thinkest  thou  that  because  no  one  stands  near  with  parchment  and  black- 
lead  to  note  thy  jargon,  it  therefore  dies  and  is  harmless  ? Nothing  dies,  nothing 
can  die.  No  idlest  word  thou  speakest  but  is  a seed  cast  into  Time,  and  grows 
through  all  Eternity  ! The  Recording  Angel,  consider  it  well,  is  no  fable,  but  the 
truest  of  truths : the  paper  tablets  thou  canst  burn  ; of  the  “ iron  leaf”  there  is  no 
burning.  T.  Carlyle. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN’S  FIRST  GLANCING. 


HILDREN  of  the  sun’s  first  glancing, 
Flowers  that  deck  the  bounteous  earth  ; 

Joy  and  mirth  are  round  ye  dancing, 
Nature  smiled  upon  your  birth  ; 

Light  hath  veined  your  petals  tender, 
And  with  hues  of  matchless  splendor 
Flora  paints  each  dewy  bell. 

But  lament,  ye  sweet  spring  blossoms, 

Soul  hath  never  thrilled  your  bosoms, 

All  in  cheerless  night  ye  dwell. 


Nightingale  and  lark  are  singing 
Many  a lay  of  love  to  you  : 

In  your  chaliced  blossoms  swinging, 
Tiny  sylphs  their  sylphids  woo  : 

Deep  within  the  painted  bower 
Of  a soft  and  perfumed  flower, 

Venus  once  did  fall  asleep: 

But  no  pulse  of  passion  darted 
Through  your  breast,  by  her  imparted, 
Children  of  the  morning,  weep. 


272 


A LOVE-LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA. 


When  my  mother’s  harsh  rejection 

And  by  you  my  bosom  grieves : 

Bids  me  cease  my  love  to  speak — 

Love  himself  among  you  stealeth 

Pledges  of  a true  affection, 

And  his  awful  form  concealeth, 

When  your  gentle  aid  I seek — 

Shut  within  your  folding  leaves. 

Then  by  every  voiceless  token, 

Schiller. 

Hope,  and  faith  unchanged,  are  spoken, 

A LOVE-LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA. 


FROM  “THE  CENTURY.” 


HWEET  Jinny,  I write  on  me  knee 

Wid  the  shtump  of  a limitid  pincil ; 
I would  write  on  me  disk,  but  you  see 
I’m  widout  that  convainient  utinsil. 
of  me  own,  but  as  yet 
Me  furniture’s  homely  an’  shlinder; 

It’s  a wife  I am  afther,  to  let 

Her  consult  her  ideals  of  shplindor. 

If  I should  buy  tables  an’  chairs, 

An’  bureaus,  an’  carpets,  an’  vases, 

An’ — bother  the  lingo  of  wares  ! — - 
An’  curtains  wid  camel-hair  laces, 

Perhaps  whin  I married  a.  wife 

She  would  turn  up  her  nose  at  me  choosin’, 
Or  waysht  the  shweet  bloom  of  her  life 
Wid  pretinse  of  contint  at  their  usin’. 

So  now,  I’ve  no  carpets  to  shweep, 

Nor  tables  nor  chairs  to  tip  o’er ; 

"Whin  night  comes  I roll  up  an’  shleep 
As  contint  as  a pig  on  the  floor. 

But  ah,  the  shweet  dreams  that  I dream 
Of  Erin’s  most  beautiful  daughter! 

'Until  in  me  visions  you  seem 

On  your  way  to  me  over  the  water ! 

( — Please  pardon  me  method  ungainly, 

But,  hopin’  the  future  may  yoke  us, 

I’ll  try  to  be  bould  an’  speak  plainly, 

An’  bring  me  note  down  to  a focus : — ) 
“Would  you  marry  a man  wid  a farrum, 

An’  a house  most  ixquisitely  warrum, 

Wid  wall  so  ixcaidin’ly  thick,  ma’am, 

For  they’re  built  of  a single  big  brick,  ma’am, 
Touchin’  Mexico,  Texas,  Nebrasky — 

The  thickest  walls  iver  you  thought  of, 

Why,  they  cover  the  country  we  bought  of 
The  sire  of  Alexis — Alasky  ! 

For  sure  its  great  walls  are  the  worruld — 

In  fact  it’s  a hole  in  the  ground ; 

But  oh,  it’s  the  place  to  be  curruled 

Whin  the  whirlwinds  are  twirlin’  around  ! 

It  is  ivery  bit  basemint  ixcipt 

The  parlor,  that  lies  out-of-doors, 

Where  the  zephyr’s  pure  fingers  have  swept 
Its  million-ply  carpeted  floors. 

Forgive  me  ixtravigant  speeches, 

But  it’s  fair  as  the  dreams  of  a Hindoo, 

“Wid  me  parlor’s  unlimited  reaches 
An’  the  sky  for  a sunny  bay-window. 


Me  darlint,  Dakota  is  new, 

Sod  houses  are  here  widout  number, 
But  I’ll  build  a board  mansion  for  you — 
Whin  I’m  able  to  purchase  the  lumber. 
An’  sure  ’twill  not  take  very  long 


IN  DAKOTA. 

Where  the  soil  is  so  fertile,  I’m  tould ; 

Whin  you  tune  up  your  plow  for  a song, 

The  earth  hums  a chorus  of  gould. 

Thin  come  to  your  Dinnis  O’Brion, 

An’  let  his  fidelity  prove 
That  his  heart  is  as  strong  as  a lion, 

Ixcipt  that  it’s  burstin’  wid  love. 

W.  W.  Fink. 


DRIFTING. 


2/3 


DRIFTING. 


Y soul  to-day 
Is  far  away, 

Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A bird  afloat, 

Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote  : 

Round  purple  peaks 
It  sails,  and  seeks 

Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 
Where  high  rocks  throw, 
Through  deeps  below, 

A duplicated  golden  glow. 


Far,  vague, 
and  dim, 

The  m o u n - 
tains  swim ; 

While  on  Vesu- 
vius’ misty 
brim, 

With  out- 
stretched 
hands, 

The  gray 
smoke  stands 

O’erlooking  the 
volcanic 
lands. 

Here  Ischia 
smiles 

O’er  liquid 
miles ; 

And  yonder,  bluest 
of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri 
waits, 

Her  sapphire 
gates 

Beguiling  to  her 
bright  es- 
tates. 


I heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 

Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff ; 
With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 
Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay’s  deep  breast  at  intervals 
At  peace  I lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 

A cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  heaven’s  own  child, 

With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled ; 

The  airs  I feel 
Around  me  steal 

Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 


Over  the  rail 
My  hand  I trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies, 
O’erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 


Her  children, 
hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gamboling  with 
the  gamboling 
kid; 

Or  down  the 
walls. 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks 
like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher’s 
child. 

With  tresses 
wild. 

Unto  the  smooth, 
bright  sand 
beguiled, 
With  glowing 
lips 

Sings  as  she 
skips, 

Or  gazes  at  the  far- 
off  ships. 


Yon  deep  bark 
traffflc 


ISRfP 

ii  mTT't  =~' 

goes 

Where 
blows, 

From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows; 

This  happier  one, 

Its  course  is  run 

From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 

With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  ! 

No  more,  no  more 
The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar! 

With  dreamful  eyes 
My  spirit  lies 

Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


274 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE , LOVE  ME  LONG. 


“PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLE.” 


’LL  tell  you  a story  that’s  not  in  Tom 
Moore : 

Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a pretty 

girl’s  door : 

So  he  call’d  upon  Lucy — ’twas  just  ten 
o’clock — 

Like  a spruce  single  man,  with  a smart  double  knock. 
II. 


Now,  a handmaid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at, 
Will  run  like  a puss  when  she  hears  a rat-tat : 


So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 

Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answered  the  door. 

hi. 

The  meeting  was  bliss ; but  the  parting  was  woe ; 

For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must 

go: 

So  she  kissed  him,  and  whispered — poor  innocent 
thing — 

“ The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a, 
ring.” 

Thomas  Hood. 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE, 


LOVE  ME  LONG. 


OVE  me  little,  love  me  long, 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 
Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 
Burneth  soon  to  waste. 
Still  I would  not  have  thee  cold, 
Not  too  backward  or  too  bold; 
Love  that  lasteth  till  ’tis  old 
Fadeth  not  in  haste. 


If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 

’Twill  not  prove  as  true  as  touch ; 
Love  me  little,  more  than  such, 

For  I fear  the  end. 

I’m  with  little  well  content, 

And  a little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent, 

To  be  steadfast  friend. 

Say  thou  lov’st  me  while  thou  live, 
I to  thee  my  love  will  give, 

Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  life  endures : 
Nay,  and  after  death,  in  sooth, 


I to  thee  will  keep  my  truth 
As  now,  in  my  May  of  youth, 

This  my  love  assures. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever, 

And  it  will  through  life  persdver 
Give  me  that,  with  true  endeavor 
I will  it  restore  ; 

A suit  of  durance  let  it  be 
For  all  weathers ; that  for  me. 

For  the  land  or  for  the  sea, 

Lasting  evermore. 

Winter’s  cold  or  Summer’s  heat,. 
Autumn’s  tempests  on  it  beat, 

It  can  never  know  defeat, 

Never  can  rebel : 

Such  the  love  that  I would  gain, 

Such  the  love,  I tell  thee  plain, 

Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vain — 

So  to  thee  farewell ! 

Anonymous  (1570)^ 


276 


THE  HEATHEN  CHINEE. 


THE  HEATHEN  CHINEE. 

(table  mountain,  1870.) 


HICH  I wish  to  remark — 

And  my  language  is  plain — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 
And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I would  rise  to  explain. 


Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply, 

But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  child-like, 
As  I frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies ; 

Which  it  might  be  inferred 
That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 

Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 
And  me  in  a way  I despise. 


Which  we  had  a small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a hand  : 

It  was  Euchre.  The  same 
He  did  not  understand  ; 

But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  a smile  that  was  child-like  and  bland. 


Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 
In  a way  that  I grieve. 

And  my  feelings  were  shocked 
At  the  state  of  Nye’s  sleeve, 


Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers,. 
And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 


But  the  hands  that  were  played 
By  that  heathen  Chinee, 

And  the  points  that  he  made 
Were  quite  frightful  to  see — 

Till  at  last  he  put  down  a right  bower, 
Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 


Then  I looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 

And  he  rose  with  a sigh, 

And  said,  “Can  this  be? 

We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,” 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I did  not  take  a hand, 

But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 
Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding. 
In  the  game  he  “ did  not  understand.” 


In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty-four  packs — 

Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I state  but  the  facts ; 

And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper. 
What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that’s  wax. 


THE  BOYS. 


277 


Which  is  why  I remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
Tk*t  for  ways  that  are  dark, 


And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 

The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, 

Which  the  same  I am  free  to  maintain. 

F.  Bret  Harte. 


THE  BOYS. 


This  selection  is  a poem  addressed  to  the  class  of  1829,  in  Harvard  College,  some  thirty  years  after  their  graduation, 
author,  who  retains  in  a high  degree  the  freshness  and  joyousness  of  youth,  addresses  his  classmates  as  “ boys." 


The 


AS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the 
boys  ? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making 
i a noise. 

Hang  the  almanac’s  cheat  and  the  catalogue’s  spite ! 
Old  Time  is  a liar  ! we’re  twenty  to-night ! 

We’re  twenty!  We’re  twenty!  Who  says  we  are 
more  ? 

He’s  tipsy — young  jackanapes ! — show  him  the  door! 
“ Gray  temples  at  twenty  ? ” — Yes  ! white  if  we  please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there’s  nothing 
can  freeze ! 


Was  it  snowing  I spoke  of?  Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close — you  will  see  not  a sign  of  a flake  ! 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We’ve  a trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been 
told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old; 

That  boy  we  call  “ Doctor,”  and  this  we  call 
“ Judge ; ” 

It’s  a neat  little  fiction — of  course  it’s  all  fudge. 

That  fellow’s  the  **  Speaker,”  the  one  on  the  right ; 


2yS 


A WAIT  THE  ISSUE. 


■“  Mr.  Mayor,”  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 
That’s  our  “ Member  of  Congress,”  we  say  when  we 
chaff; 

There’s  the  “Reverend” — what’s  his  name? — don’t 
make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a wonderful  book, 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  true  ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in — a good  joke  it  was  too  ! 

There’s  a boy,  we  pretend,  with  a three-decker  brain, 
That  could  harness  a team  with  a logical  chain ; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire. 

We  called  him  “ The  Justice,”  but  now  he’s  the 
“ Squire.” 

And  there’s  a nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith  ; 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith ; 


But  he  shouted  a song  for  the  brave  and  the  free — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  “ My  country,”  “ of  thee  ! * 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ? You  think  he’s  all  fun ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 

And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of 
all! 

Yes,  we’re  boys — always  playing  with  tongue  or  with 
pen ; 

And  I sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here’s  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May ! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  The  Boys  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


AWAIT  THE  ISSUE. 

N this  world,  with  its  wild  whirling  eddies  and  mad  foam  oceans,  where  men 
and  nations  perish  as  if  without  law,  and  judgment  for  an  unjust  thing  is 
sternly  delayed,  dost  thou  think  that  there  is  therefore  no  justice?  It  is 
what  the  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  It  is  what  the  wise  in  all  times  were 
wise  because  they  denied,  and  knew  forever  not  to  be.  I tell  thee  again,  there  is 
nothing  else  but  justice.  One  strong  thing  I find  here  below:  the  just  thing,  the 
true  thing. 

My  friend,  if  thou  hadst  all  the  artillery  of  Woolwich  trundling  at  thy  back  in 
support  of  an  unjust  thing,  and  infinite  bonfires  visibly  waiting  ahead  of  thee,  to  blaze 
centuries  long  for  thy  victory  on  behalf  of  it,  I would  advise  thee  to  call  halt,  to  fling 
down  thy  baton  and  say,  “ In  heaven’s  name,  No ! ” 

Thy  “ success  ” ? Poor  fellow  ! what  will  thy  success  amount  to  ? If  the  thing 
is  unjust,  thou  hast  not  succeeded;  no,  not  though  bonfires  blazed  from  north  to 
south,  and  bells  rang,  and  editors  wrote  leading  articles,  and  the  just  things  lay 
trampled  out  of  sight  to  all  mortal  eyes  an  abolished  and  annihilated  thing. 

It  is  the  right  and  noble  alone  that  will  have  victory  in  this  struggle ; the  rest  is 
wholly  an  obstruction,  a postponement  and  fearful  imperilment  of  the  victory.  To- 
wards an  eternal  centre  of  right  and  nobleness,  and  of  that  only,  is  all  confusion 
tending.  We  already  know  whither  it  is  all  tending ; what  will  have  victory,  what 
will  have  none.  The  heaviest  will  reach  the  centre.  The  heaviest  has  its  deflections, 
its  obstructions,  nay,  at  times-its  reboundings;  whereupon  some  blockhead  shall  be 
heard  jubilating,  “See,  your  heaviest  ascends!”  but  at  all  moments  it  is  moving 
centreward  fast  as  is  convenient  for  it ; sinking,  sinking ; and,  by  laws  older  than 
the  world,  old  as  the  Maker’s  first  plan  of  the  world,  it  has  to  arrive  there. 

Await  the  issue.  In  all  battles,  if  you  await  the  issue,  each  fighter  has  prospered 
according  to  his  right.  His  right  *nd  his  might,  at  the  close  of  the  account,  were 


MY  ANGEL. 


279 

one  and  the  same.  He  has  fought  with  all  his  might,  and  in  exact  proportion  to  all 
his  right  he  has  prevailed.  His  very  death  is  no  victory  over  him.  He  dies  indeed; 
but  his  work  lives,  very  truly  lives. 

A heroic  Wallace,  quartered  on  the  scaffold,  cannot  hinder  that  his  Scotland  be- 
come, one  day,  a part  of  England ; but  he  does  hinder  that  it  become,  on  tyrannous, 
unfair  terms,  a part  of  it;  commands  still,  as  with  a god’s  voice,  from  his  old  Valhalla 
and  Temple  of  the  Brave,  that  there  be  a just,  real  union,  as  of  brother  and  brother — 
not  a false  and  merely  semblant  one,  as  of  slave  and  master.  If  the  union  with  Eng- 
land be  in  fact  one  of  Scotland’s  chief  blessings,  we  thank  Wallace  withal  that  it  was 
not  the  chief  curse.  Scotland  is  not  Ireland  ; no,  because  brave  men  rose  there  and 
said,  “ Behold,  ye  must  not  tread  us  down  like  slaves,  and  ye  shall  not  and  cannot ! ” 

Fight  on,  thou  brave,  true  heart,  and  falter  not,  through  dark  fortune  and  through 
bright.  The  cause  thou  tightest  for,  so  far  as  it  is  true,  no  further,  yet  precisely  so  far, 
is  very  sure  of  victory.  The  falsehood  alone  of  it  will  be  conquered,  will  be  abolished, 
as  it  ought  to  be ; but  the  truth  of  it  is  part  of  Nature’s  own  laws,  co-operates  with 
the  world’s  eternal  tendencies,  and  cannot  be  conquered.  T.  Carlyle. 


MY  ANGEL. 


LOWLY  the  night  is  falling, 

Falling  down  from  the  hill, 

And  all  in  the  low  green  valley 
The  dew  lies  heavy  and  chill ; 

The  crickets  cry  in  the  hedges. 

And  the  bats  are  circling  low, 

And  like  ghosts  through  the  blossoming  garden 
The  glimmering  night-moths  go. 

Hand  in  hand  through  the  twilight 
Come  the  children,  every  one, 

Flushed  with  their  eager  frolic. 

Tawny  with  wind  and  sun ; 

Home  from  the  sunny  upland, 

Where  the  sweet  wild  berries  grow, 

Home  from  the  tangled  thickets, 

Where  the  nuts  are  ripening  slow. 

They  mock  at  the  owl’s  weird  laughter 
And  the  cricket’s  lonesome  cry, 

At  the  tardy  swallows  flying 

Late  through  the  darkening  sky ; 

And  silently*  gliding  after 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  shadowy  street, 
Comes  their  little  angel  sister, 

Star-white  from  her  head  to  her  feet — 

Never  crossing  the  threshold, 

Come  they  early  or  late ; 

With  her  empty  hands  on  her  bosom 
She  stops  at  the  cottage  gate. 

I stretch  out  my  hands  in  longing, 

But  she  fades  from  my  aching  sight, 

As  a little  white  cloud  at  morning 
Vanishes  into  the  light. 


And  spite  of  the  shining  garments 
Folded  about  her  now, 

And  spite  of  the  deathless  beauty 
Crowning  her  lip  and  brow, 

I wish  for  one  passionate  moment 
She  sat  on  my  knee  again  ; 

On  her  feet  so  spotless  and  tender 
The  dust  and  the  earthly  stain. 

For  missing  her  morning  and  evening, 

The  bitterest  thought  must  be 
That  safe  with  her  blessed  kindred 
The  child  hath  no  need  of  me ; 

And  counting  her  heavenly  birthdays, 

I say  in  my  jealous  care ; 

“ The  babe  that  lay  on  my  bosom 
Hath  grown  to  maiden  fair : 

“And  now  if  out  of  the  glory 
Her  face  like  a star  should  shine, 

Could  I guess  the  beautiful  changeling 
Had  ever  on  earth  been  mine  ? 

I should  veil  my  eyes  at  her  splendor. 

But  never  forget  my  lack 
For  the  clinging  hands  of  my  baby, 

And  the  mouth  that  kissed  me  back.” 

Yet  though  in  my  human  blindness 
I cannot  fathom  His  way, 

Who  counts  in  his  glorious  cycles 
A thousand  years  as  a day — 

Whenever  the  cloud  is  lifted, 

Whenever  I cross  the  tide, 

Mine  own  will  He  surely  give  me, 

And  I shall  be  satisfied. 

Anonymous. 


28o 


A CHILD  ASLEEP. 


A CHILD  ASLEEP. 


OW  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken 
Weary  childhood’s  mandragore ! 
From  his  pretty  eyes  have  sunken 

Pleasures  to  make  room  for  more : 

Sleeping  near  the  withered  nosegay  which  he  pulled 
the  day  before. 


Nosegays  ! leave  them  for  the  waking ; 

Throw  them  earthward  where  they  grew ; 

Dim  are  such  beside  the  breaking 
Amaranths  he  looks  unto  : 

Folded  eyes  see  brighter  colors  than  the  open  ever  do. 

Vision  unto  vision  calleth 

While  the  young  child  dreameth  on  : 

Fair,  O dreamer,  thee  befalleth 
With  the  glory  thou  hast  won  ! 

Darker  wast  thou  in  the  garden  yestermorn  by  summer 
sun. 

We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 
Round  thee  were  the  clouds  away ; 

’Tis  the  child -heart  draws  them,  singing 
In  the  silent-seeming  clay — 


Singing ! stars  that  seem  the  mutest  go  in  music  all 
the  way. 

Speak  not ! he  is  consecrated ; 

Breathe  no  breath  across  his  eyes 
Lifted  up  and  separated 

On  the  hand  of  God  he  lies 
In  a sweetness  beyond  touching,  held  in  cloistral  sanc- 
tities. 

Could  ye  bless  him,  father,  mother — 

Bless  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  ? 

Dare  ye  look  at  one  another 
And  the  benediction  speak? 

Would  ye  not  break  out  in  weeping  and  confess  your* 
selves  too  weak  ? 

He  is  harmless,  ye  are  sinful ; 

Ye  are  troubled,  he  at  ease  : 

From  his  slumber,  virtue  winful 
Floweth  onward  with  increase. 

Dare  not  bless  him ! but  be  blessed  by  his  peace,  and 
go  in  peace. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


ANSWER  TO  A CHILD’S  QUESTION. 


) you  ask  what  the  birds  say?  The  spar- 
row, the  dove, 

The  linnet,  and  thrush  say,  “ I love,  and  I 
love ! ” 

In  the  winter  they’re  silent,  the  wind  is  so  strong; 
What  it  says  I don’t  know,  but  it  sings  a loud  song. 
But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm 
weather, 


And  singing  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 

But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 

The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 

That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  forever  sings 
he, 

“ I love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me.” 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


28l 


JOAN  OF  ARC’S  FAREWELL  TO  HOME. 

\.REWELL,  ye  mountains, 
ye  beloved  glades, 

Ye  lone  and  peaceful  valleys, 
fare  ye  well ! 

Through  you  Johanna  never 
more  may  stray  ! 

For  aye  Johanna  bids  you 
now  farewell. 

Ye  meads  which  I have 
watered,  and  ye  trees 
Which  I have  planted,  still  in 
beauty  bloom  ! 

Farewell,  ye  grottoes,  and  ye 
crystal  springs ! 

Sweet  echo,  vocal  spirit  of 
the  vale, 

Who  sang’st  responsive  to  my  simple  strain, 

Johanna  goes,  and  ne’er  returns  again. 

Ye  scenes  where  all  my  tranquil  joys  I knew, 

Forever  now  I leave  you  far  behind ! 

Poor  foldless  lambs,  no  shepherd  now  have  you ! 

O’er  the  wide  heath  stray  henceforth  unconfined ! 

For  I to  danger’s  field,  of  crimson  hue, 

Am  summoned  hence  another  flock  to  find. 

Such  is  to  me  the  Spirit’s  high  behest ; 

No  earthly  vain  ambition  fires  my  breast. 

For  who  in  glory  did  on  Horeb’s  height 
Descend  to  Moses  in  the  bush  of  flame, 

And  bade  him  stand  in  royal  Pharaoh’s  sight. 

Who  once  to  Israel’s  pious  shepherd  came, 

And  sent  him  forth,  his  champion  in  the  fight, 

Who  aye  hath  loved  the  lowly  shepherd  train. 

He  from  these  leafy  boughs  thus  spake  to  me  : 

“ Go  forth ! Thou  shalt  on  earth  my  witness  be. 

“ Thou  in  rude  armor  must  thy  limbs  invest, 

A plate  of  steel  upon  thy  bosom  wear; 

Vain  earthly  love  may  never  stir  thy  breast, 

Nor  passion’s  sinful  glow  be  kindled  there. 

Ne’er  with  the  bride-wreath  shall  thy  locks  be  dressed, 
Nor  on  thy  bosom  bloom  an  infant  fair. 

But  war’s  triumphant  glory  shall  be  thine ; 

Thy  martial  fame  all  women  shall  outshine. 

“ For  when  in  fight  the  stoutest  hearts  despair, 

When  direful  ruin  threatens  France,  forlorn, 

Then  thou  aloft  my  oriflamme  shalt  bear, 

And  swiftly  as  the  reaper  mows  the  corn, 

Thou  shalt  lay  low  the  haughty  conqueror; 

His  fortune’s  wheel  thou  rapidly  shalt  turn, 

To  Gaul’s  heroic  sons  deliv’rance  bring, 

Relieve  beleaguered  Rheims,  and  crown  thy  king ! ” 

The  heavenly  Spirit  promised  me  a sign  ; 

He  sends  the  helmet,  it  hath  come  from  him. 

Its  iron  filleth  me  with  strength  divine, 

I feel  the  courage  of  the  cherubim ; 

As  with  the  rushing  of  a mighty  wind 
It  drives  me  forth  to  join  the  battle’s  din; 

The  clanging  trumpets  sound,  the  chargers  rear. 

And  the  loud  war-cry  thunders  in  mine  ear. 

Schiller. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

a league,  half  a league, 

'alf  a league  onward, 
in  the  valley  of  death 
ode  the  six  hundred. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  l 
Charge  for  the  guns ! ” he  said. 

Into  the  valley  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! ” 

Was  there  a man  dismayed  ? 

Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 
Some  one  had  blundered  : 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 

Into  the  valley  of  death, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered: 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well : 

Into  the  jaws  of  death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare. 

Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 

Sab’ring  the  gunners  there, 

Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered  : 

Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 

Right  through  the  line  they  broke  t 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 

Then  they  rode  back — but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered . 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

They  that  had  fought  so  well, 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  death, 

Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 

All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

O,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


282 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

\ 


Under  the  willows  and  over  the  hill. 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober 
pace; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And  something  shadowed  the 
sunny  face. 


Only  a boy ! and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest 
go: 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling 
foe. 


But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the 
meadow  swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun, 
And  stealthily  followed  the  foot- 
path damp — 


Across  the  clover  and  through  the 
wheat, 

With  resolute  heart  and  purpose 
grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his 
hurrying  feet, 

And  the  blind  bats  flitting  startled 
him. 


Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 

And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 
Looked  out  a face  that  the  father  knew ; 


For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 

And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb, 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain ; 
And  the  old  man’s  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a son’s  again. 


The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late ; 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one — 


Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind, 
Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 


Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been 
white, 

And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple- 
bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came 
back  at  night, 

The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 


|UT  of  the  clover  and  blue- 
eyed  grass 

He  turned  them  into 
the  river-lane; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars 
again. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 


283 


FAIRY  SONG. 


HED  no  tear  ! Oh,  shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  ! Oh,  weep  no  more  ! 

1 Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root’s  white  core. 

Dry  your  eyes  ! Oh,  dry  your  eyes! 

For  I was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 

Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  ! look  overhead  ! 

’Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 

Look  up,  look  up.  I flutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough. 

See  me  ! ’tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man’s  ill. 

Shed  no  tear ! Oh,  shed  no  tear  ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 

Adieu,  adieu — I fly,  adieu, 

I vanish  in  the  heaven’s  blue — 

Adieu,  adieu  ! 

John  Keats. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW. 

HE  Wandering  Jew  once  said  to  me, 

I passed  through  a city  in  the  cool  of 
the  year, 

A man  in  the  garden  plucked  fruit  from  a 
tree ; 

I asked,  “ How  long  has  this  city  been  here  ? ” 
And  he  answered  me,  and  he  plucked  away, 

“ It  has  always  stood  where  it  stands  to-day, 

And  here  it  will  stand  forever  and  aye.” 

Five  hundred  years  rolled  by,  and  then 
I travelled  the  self-same  road  again. 

No  trace  of  a city  there  I found  ; 

A shepherd  sat  blowing  his  pipe  alone, 

His  flock  went  quietly  nibbling  round, 

I asked,  “ How  long  has  the  city  been  gone  ? ” 
And  he  answered  me,  and  he  piped  away, 

•“  The  new'  ones  bloom  and  the  old  decay, 

This  is  my  pasture-ground  for  aye.” 

Five  hundred  years  rolled  by,  and  then 
I travelled  the  self-same  road  again. 


And  I came  to  a sea,  and  the  waves  did  roar, 

And  a fisherman  threw  his  net  out  clear, 

And  when  heavy  laden  he  dragged  it  ashore, 

I asked,  “ How  long  has  the  sea  been  here  ? ” 

And  he  laughed,  and  he  said,  and  he  laughed  away: 
“As  long  as  yon  billows  have  tossed  their  spray, 
They’ve  fished  and  they’ve  fished  in  the  self-same 
way.” 

Five  hundred  years  rolled  by,  and  then 
I travelled  the  self-same  road  again. 


And  I came  to  a forest,  vast  and  free. 

And  a woodman  stood  in  the  thicket  near ; 

His  axe  he  laid  at  the  foot  of  a tree  : 

I asked,  “ How  long  have  the  woods  been  here  ? ” 
And  he  answered,  “ The  woods  are  a covert  for  aye ; 
My  ancestors  dwelt  here  alway, 

And  the  trees  have  been  here  since  creation’s  day.” 
Five  hundred  years  rolled  by,  and  then 
I travelled  the  self-same  road  again. 


And  I found  there  a city,  and  far  and  near 
Resounded  the  hum  of  toil  and  glee, 

And  I asked,  “ How  long  has  the  city  been  here, 

And  where  is  the  pipe,  and  the  wood,  and  the  sea  ? ” 
And  they  answered  me,  and  they  went  their  way, 

“ Things  always  have  stood  as  they  stand  to-day, 

And  so  they  will  stand  for  ever  and  aye.” 

I’ll  wait  five  hundred  years,  and  then 
I’ll  travel  the  self-same  road  again. 

Anonymous. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

HAVE  had  playmates,  I have  had  com- 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days ; 


All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I have  been  laughing,  I have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I loved  a Love  once,  fairest  among  women  : 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I must  not  see  her — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  a friend,  a kinder  friend  has  no  man  : 

Like  an  ingrate,  I left  my  friend  abruptly ; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a desert  I was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a brother, 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father’s  dwelling  ? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces. 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ; all  are  departed  ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Charles  Lamb. 


284 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


OCTOR  SEVIER  came  to  Richling’s  room 
one  afternoon,  and  handed  him  a sealed  letter. 
The  post-mark  was  blurred,  but  it  was  easy 
still  to  read  the  abbreviation  of  the  State’s 
name — Kentucky.  It  had  come  by  way  of 
New  York  and  the  Sea.  The  sick  man 
reached  out  for  it  with  avidity  from  the  large 
bed  in  which  he  sat  bolstered  up.  He  tore 
it  open  with  unsteady  fingers,  and  sought 
the  signature. 

“ It’s  from  a lawyer.” 

“ An  old  acquaintance  ? ” asked  the  doctor. 

“ Yes,”  responded  Richling,  his  eyes  glancing  eagerly  along  the 
lines.  “ Mary’s  in  the  Confederate  lines  ! — Mary  and  Alice  ! ” The 
hand  that  held  the  letter  dropped  to  his  lap.  “ It  doesn’t  say  a 
word  about  how  she  got  through  ! ” 

“ But  where  did  she  get  through  ? ” asked  the  physician.  “ Where- 
abouts is  she  now  ? ” 

“She  got  through  away  up  to  the  eastward  of  Corinth,  Missis- 
sippi. Doctor,  she  may  be  within  fifty  miles  of  us  this  very  minute  ! 
Do  you  think  they’ll  give  her  a pass  to  come  in  ? ” 

“ They  may,  Richling ; I hope  they  will.” 

I think  I’d  get  well  if  she’d  come,”  said  the  invalid.  But  his  friend  made  no 


answer. 

A day  or  two  afterward — it  was  drawing  to  the  close  of  a beautiful  afternoon  in 
early  May — Dr.  Sevier  came  into  the  room  and  stood  at  a window,  looking  out. 
Madame  Zenobie  sat  by  the  bedside  softly  fanning  the  patient.  Richling,  with  his 
eyes,  motioned  her  to  retire.  She  smiled  and  nodded  approvingly,  as  if  to  say  that 
that  was  just  what  she  was  about  to  propose,  and  went  out,  shutting  the  door  with 
just  sound  enough  to  announce  her  departure  to  Dr.  Sevier. 

He  came  from  the  window  to  the  bedside  and  sat  down.  The  sick  man  looked 
him  with  a feeble  eye,  and  said,  in  little  more  than  a whisper : 

“ Mary  and  Alice ” 

u Yes  ? ” said  the  doctor. 

“ If  they  don’t  come  to-night  they’ll  be  too  late.” 
u God  knows,  my  dear  boy.” 

Doctor ” 

‘ What,  Richling  ? ” 

“ Did  you  ever  try  to  guess ” 

“Guess  what,  Richling?” 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


285 


“His  use  of  my  life.’' 

“ Why,  yes,  my  poor  boy,  I have  tried.  But  I only  make  out  its  use  to  me.” 

The  sick  man’s  eye  brightened. 

“ Has  it  been  ? ” 

The  doctor  nodded.  He  reached  out  and  took  the  wasted  hand  in  his.  It  tried 
to  answer  his  pressure.  The  invalid  spoke. 

“ I’m  glad  you  told  me  that  before — before  it  was  too  late.” 

“ Are  you,  my  dear  boy  ? Shall  I tell  you  more  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  the  sick  man  huskily  replied  ; “ oh,  yes.” 

“Well,  Richling — you  know  we’re  great  cowards  about  saying  such  things;  it’s 
a part  of  our  poor  human  weakness  and  distrust  of  each  other,  and  the  emptiness 
of  words — but — lately — only  just  here,  very  lately,  I’ve  learned  to  call  the  meekest, 
lovingest  One  that  ever  trod  our  earth,  Master ; and  it’s  been  your  life,  my  dear 
fellow,  that  has  taught  me.”  He  pressed  the  sick  man’s  hand  slowly  and  tremulously, 
then  let  it  go,  but  continued  to  caress  it  in  a tender,  absent  way,  looking  on  the  floor 
as  he  spoke  on. 

“ Richling,  Nature  herself  appoints  some  men  to  poverty  and  some  to  riches. 
God  throws  the  poor  upon  our  charge — in  mercy  to  us.  Couldn’t  he  take  care  of 
them  without  us  if  he  wished  ? Are  they  not  his  ? It’s  easy  for  the  poor  to  feel, 
when  they  are  helped  by  us,  that  the  rich  are  a godsend  to  them ; but  they  don’t 
see,  and  many  of  their  helpers  don’t  see,  that  the  poor  are  a godsend  to  the  rich. 
They’re  set  over  against  each  other  to  keep  pity  and  mercy  and  charity  in  the 
human  heart.  If  every  one  were  entirely  able  to  take  care  of  himself,  we’d  turn  to 
stone.” 

The  speaker  ceased. 

“ Go  on,”  whispered  the  listener. 

“ That  will  never  be,”  continued  the  doctor.  “ God  Almighty  will  never  let  us 
find  a way  to  quite  abolish  poverty.  Riches  don’t  always  bless  the  man  they  come 
to,  but  they  bless  the  world.  And  so  with  poverty  ; and  it’s  no  contemptible  com- 
mission, Richling,  to  be  appointed  by  God  to  bear  that  blessing  to  mankind  which 
keeps  its  brotherhood  universal.  See,  now  ” — he  looked  up  with  a gentle  smile — 
“ from  what  a distance  he  brought  our  two  hearts  together.  Why,  Richling,  the 
man  that  can  make  the  rich  and  poor  love  each  other  will  make  the  world  happier 
than  it  has  ever  been  since  man  fell.” 

“ Go  on,”  whispered  Richling. 

“ No,”  said  the  doctor. 

“ Well,  now,  doctor — / want  to  say — something.”  The  invalid  spoke  with  a weak 
and  broken  utterance,  with  many  breaks  and  starts  that  we  may  set  aside. 

“ For  a long  time,”  he  said,  beginning  as  if  half  in  soliloquy,  “ I couldn’t  believe 
I was  coming  to  this  early  end,  simply  because  I didn’t  see  why  I should.  I know 

that  was  foolish.  I thought  my  hardships ” He  ceased  entirely,  and,  when 

his  strength  would  allow,  resumed : 


286 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


“ I thought  they  were  sent  in  order  that  when  I should  come  to  fortune  I might 
take  part  in  correcting  some  evils  that  are  strangely  overlooked.” 

The  doctor  nodded,  and  after  a moment  of  rest  Richling  said  again : 

“ But  now  I see — that  is  not  my  work.  May  be  it  is  Mary’s.  May  be  it’s  my 
little  girl’s.” 

“ Or  mine,”  murmured  the  doctor. 

“ Yes,  doctor,  I’ve  been  lying  here  to-day  thinking  of  something  I never  thought 
of  before,  though  I dare  say  you  have,  often.  There  could  be  no  art  of  healing  till 
the  earth  was  full  of  graves.  It  is  by  shipwreck  that  we  learn  to  build  ships*  All 
our  safety — all  our  betterment — is  secured  by  our  knowledge  of  others’  disasters 
that  need  not  have  happened  had  they  only  known.  Will  you — finish  my  mission  ? ” 
The  sick  man’s  hand  softly  grasped  the  hand  that  lay  upon  it.  And  the  doctor 
responded  : 

“ How  shall  I do  that,  Richling  ? ” 

“ Tell  my  story.” 

“ But  I don’t  know  it  all,  Richling.” 

“I’ll  tell  you  all  that’s  behind.  You  know  I’m  a native  of  Kentucky.  My  name 
is  not  Richling.  I belong  to  one  of  the  proudest,  most  distinguished  families  in  that 
State  or  in  all  the  land.  Until  I married  I never  knew  an  ungratified  wish.  I think 
my  bringing-up,  not  to  be  wicked,  was  as  bad  as  could  be.  It  was  based  upon  the 
idea  that  I was  always  to  be  master  and  never  servant.  I was  to  go  through  life 
with  soft  hands.  I was  educated  to  know,  but  not  to  do.  When  I left  school  my 
parents  let  me  travel.  They  would  have  let  me  do  anything  except  work.  In  the 
West — in  Milwaukee — I met  Mary.  It  was  by  mere  chance.  She  was  poor,  but 
cultivated  and  refined  ; trained — you  know — for  knowing,  not  doing.  I loved  her 
and  courted  her,  and  she  encouraged  my  suit,  under  the  idea,  you  know,  again  ” — - 
he  smiled  faintly  and  sadly — “ that  it  was  nobody’s  business  but  ours.  I offered  my 
hand  and  was  accepted.  But  when  I came  to  announce  our  engagement  to  my 
family,  they  warned  me  that  if  I married  her  they  would  disinherit  and  disown  me.” 
“ What  was  their  reason,  Richling?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But,  Richling,  they  had  a reason  of  some  sort.” 

“ Nothing  in  the  world  but  that  Mary  was  a Northern  girl.  Simple  sectional 
prejudice.  I didn’t  tell  Mary.  I didn’t  think  they  would  do  it,  but  I knew  Mary 
would  refuse  to  put  me  to  the  risk.  We  married,  and  they  carried  out  their  threat.” 
The  doctor  uttered  a low  exclamation,  and  both  were  silent. 

“ Doctor,”  began  the  sick  man  once  more. 

“ Yes,  Richling.” 

“ I suppose  you  never  looked  into  the  case  of  a man  who  needed  help  but  you 
were  sure  to  find  that  some  one  thing  was  the  key  to  all  his  troubles ; did  you  ? ” 
The  doctor  was  silent  still. 

“ I’ll  give  you  the  key  to  mine,  doctor : I took  up  the  gage  thrown  down  by  my 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


287 


family  as  though  it  were  thrown  down  by  society  at  large.  I said  I would  match 
pride  with  pride.  I said  I would  go  among  strangers,  take  a new  name,  and  make 
it  as  honorable  as  the  old.  I saw  Mary  didn’t  think  it  wise;  but  she  believed  what- 
ever I did  was  best,  and  ” — he  smiled  and  whispered — “ I thought  so  too.  I sup- 
pose my  troubles  have  more  than  one  key,  but  that’s  the  outside  one.  Let  me  rest 
a little. 

“ Doctor,  I die  nameless.  I had  a name,  a good  name,  and  only  too  proud  a one. 
It’s  mine  still.  I’ve  never  tarnished  it — not  even  in  prison.  I will  not  stain  it  now 

by  disclosing  it.  I carry  it  with  me  to  God’s  throne.” 

The  whisperer  ceased,  exhausted.  The  doctor  rested  an  elbow  on  a knee  and  laid 
his  face  in  his  hand.  Presently  Richling  moved,  and  he  raised  a look  of  sad  inquiry. 

“ Bury  me  here  in  New  Orleans,  doctor,  will  you  ? ” 

“ Why,  Richling  ? ” 

“ Well — this  has  been — my — battle-ground.  I’d  like  to  be  buried  on  the  field — > 
like  the  other  soldiers.  Not  that  I’ve  been  a good  one ; but — I want  to  lie  where 
you  can  point  to  me  as  you  tell  my  story.  If  it  could  be  so,  I should  like  to  lie  in 
sight — of  that  old  prison.” 

The  doctor  brushed  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  brow. 

“ Doctor,”  said  the  invalid  again,  “ will  you  read  me  just  four  verses  in  the  Bible  ? ” 

“ Why,  yes,  my  boy,  as  many  as  you  wish  to  hear.” 

“ No,  only  four.”  His  free  hand  moved  for  the  book  that  lay  on  the  bed  and 
presently  the  doctor  read  : 

“ ‘ My  brethren,  count  it  all  joy  when  ye  fall  into  divers  temptations; 

“ ‘ Knowing  this,  that  the  trying  of  your  faith  worketh  patience. 

“ * But  let  patience  have  her  perfect  work,  that  ye  may  be  perfect  and  entire,  wanting  nothing. 

“ ‘ If  any  of  you  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth  to  all  men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not;  and 
it  shall  be  given  him.’  ” 

“ There,”  whispered  the  sick  man,  and  rested  with  a peaceful  look  in  all  his  face. 
“ It — doesn’t  mean  wisdom  in  general,  doctor — such  as  Solomon  asked  for.” 

“ Doesn’t  it  ? ” said  the  other  meekly. 

“ No.  It  means  the  wisdom  necessary  to  let — patience — have  her  perf . I 

was  a long  time — getting  anywhere  near  that. 

“ Doctor — do  you  remember  how  fond — Mary  was  of  singing — all  kinds  of — little 
old  songs  ? ” 

“ Of  course  I do,  my  dear  boy.” 

“ Did  you  ever  sing — doctor?” 

“ Oh  ! my  dear  fellow,  I never  did  really  sing,  and  I haven’t  uttered  a note  since 
— for  twenty  years.” 

“ Can’t  you  sing — ever  so  softly — just  a verse — of — * I’m  a Pilgrim  ’ ? ” 

“ I — I — it’s  impossible,  Richling,  old  fellow.  I don’t  know  either  the  words  or 
the  tune.  I never  sing.”  He  smiled  at  himself  through  his  tears. 


288 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


“ Well,  all  right,”  whispered  Richling.  He  lay  with  closed  eyes  for  a moment, 
and  then,  as  he  open'ed  them,  breathed  faintly  through  his  parted  lips  the  words, 
spoken,  not  sung,  while  his  hand  feebly  beat  the  imagined  cadence : 

“ ‘ The  sun  shines  bright  in  my  old  Kentucky  home. 

’Tis  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay ; 

The  corn-tops  are  ripe,  and  the  meadows  are  in  bloom, 

And  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day.’  ” 

The  doctor  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  all  was  still. 

By  and  by  there  came  a whisper  again.  The  doctor  raised  his  head. 

“ Doctor,  there's  one  thing ” 

“Yes,  1 know  there  is,  Richling.” 

“ Doctor — I’ve  been  a poor  stick  of  a husband.” 

“ I never  knew  a good  one,  Richling.” 

“ Doctor,  you’ll  be  a friend  to  Mary  ? ” 

The  doctor  nodded ; his  eyes  were  full. 

The  sick  man  drew  from  his  breast  a small  ambrotype,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and 
poised  it  in  his  trembling  fingers.  It  was  the  likeness  of  the  little  Alice.  He  turned 
his  eyes  to  his  friend. 

“ I didn’t  need  Mary’s.  But  this  is  all  I’ve  ever  seen  of  my  little  girl.  To-mor- 
row at  daybreak — it  will  be  just  at  daybreak — when  you  see  that  I’ve  passed,  I 

want  you  to  lay  this  here  on  my  breast.  Then  fold  my  hands  upon  it ” 

His  speech  was  arrested.  He  seemed  to  hearken  an  instant. 

“ Doctor,”  he  said,  with  excitement  in  his  eye  and  sudden  strength  of  voice, 
“ what  is  that  I hear  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  his  friend ; “ one  of  the  servants,  probably,  down  in  the 
hall.”  But  he,  too,  seemed  to  have  been  startled.  He  lifted  his  head.  There  was 
•a  sound  of  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs  in  haste. 

“ Doctor.”  The  doctor  was  rising  from  his  chair. 

“ Lie  still,  Richling.” 

But  the  sick  man  suddenly  sat  erect. 

“ Doctor — it’s — O doctor,  I ” 

The  door  flew  open ; there  was  a low  outcry  from  the  threshold,  a moan  of  joy 
from  the  sick  man,  a throwing  wide  of  arms,  and  a rush  to  the  bedside,  and  John 

and  Mary  Richling — and  the  little  Alice,  too 

Come,  Dr.  Sevier;  come  out  and  close  the  door. 

“ Strangest  thing  on  earth ! ” I once  heard  a physician  say — “ the  mysterious 
power  that  the  dying  so  often  have  to  fix  the  very  hour  of  their  approaching  end ! ” 
It  was  so  in  John  Richling’s  case.  It  was  as  he  said.  Had  Mary  and  Alice  not 
come  when  they  did,  they  would  have  been  too  late.  He  “tarried  but  a night;  ” 
and  at  the  dawn  Mary  uttered  the  bitter  cry  of  the  widow,  and  Dr.  Sevier 


THEIR  ANGELS. 


289 


closed  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  committed  no  fault — against  this  world,  at  least- 
save  that  he  had  been  by  nature  a pilgrim  and  a stranger  in  it.  G.  W.  Cable. 


THEIR  ANGELS. 

Y heart  is  lonely  as  heart  can  be, 

And  the  cry  of  Rachel  goes  up  from  me, 
For  the  tender  faces  unforgot 
Of  the  little  children  that  are  not: 
Although,  I know, 

They  are  all  in  the  land  where  I shall  go. 

I want  them  close  in  the  dear  old  way ; 

But  life  goes  forward  and  will  not  stay, 

And  He  who  made  it  has  made  it  right : 

Yet  I miss  my  darlings  out  of  my  sight. 
Although,  I know, 

They  are  all  in  the  land  where  I shall  go. 

Only  one  has  died.  There  is  one  small  mound, 
Violet-heaped,  in  the  sweet  grave-ground  ; 
Twenty  years  they  have  bloomed  and  spread 
Over  the  little  baby  head ; 

And  oh  ! I know 

She  is  safe  in  the  land  where  I shall  go. 

Not  dead  : only  grown  and  gone  away. 

The  hair  of  my  darling  is  turning  gray, 

That  was  golden  once  in  the  days  so  dear. 

Over  for  many  and  many  a year. 

Yet  I know — I know — 

She’s  a child  in  the  land  where  I shall  go. 

My  bright  brave  boy  is  a grave-eyed  man, 
Facing  the  world  as  a worker  can ; 

But  I think  of  him  now  as  I had  him  then, 

And  I lay  his  cheek  to  my  heart  again, 

And  so,  I know, 

I shall  have  him  there  where  we  both  shall  go. 

Out  from  the  Father,  and  into  life; 

Back  to  His  breast  from  the  ended  strife, 

And  the  finished  labor.  I hear  the  word 
From  the  lips  of  Him  who  was  Child  and  Lord, 
And  I know,  that  so 

It  shall  be  in  the  land  where  we  all  shall  go. 

Given  back — with  the  gain.  The  secret  this 
Of  the  blessed  Kingdom  of  Children  is  ! 

My  mother’s  arms  are  waiting  for  me  ; 

I shall  lay  my  head  on  my  father’s  knee  ; 

For  so,  I know, 

I’m  a child  myself  where  I shall  go. 

The  world  is  troublous  and  hard  and  cold, 

And  men  and  women  grow  gray  and  old : 

But  behind  the  world  is  an  inner  place 
Where  yet  their  angels  behold  God’s  face. 

And  lo  ! we  know, 

That  only  the  children  can  see  Him  so  ! 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 


FAITH  AND  HOPE. 

DON’T  be  sorrowful,  darling ! 

Now,  don’t  be  sorrowful,  pray; 

For,  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear. 
There  isn’t  more  night  than  day. 

It’s  rainy  weather,  my  loved  one ; 

Time’s  wheels  they  heavily  run ; 

But  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear. 

There  isn’t  more  cloud  than  sun. 

We’re  old  folks  now,  companion — 

Our  heads  they  are  growing  gray ; 

But  taking  the  year  all  round,  my  dear, 

You  always  will  find  the  May. 

We’ve  had  our  May,  my  darling, 

And  our  roses,  long  ago ; 

And  the  time  of  the  year  is  come,  my  dear, 
For  the  long  dark  nights,  and  the  snow. 

But  God  is  God,  my  faithful, 

Of  night  as  well  as  of  day; 

And  we  feel  and  know  that  we  can  go 
Wherever  he  leads  the  way. 

Ay,  God  of  night,  my  darling ! 

Of  the  night  of  death  so  grim ; 

And  the  gate  that  from  life  leads  out,  good  wife. 
Is  the  gate  that  leads  to  him. 

Rembrandt  Peale. 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 

“ Two  hands  upon  the  breast,  and  labor  is  past.” — Russia* 
Proverb. 

WO  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor’s  done ; 

Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest — 

The  race  is  won ; 

Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease ; 

Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 

Anger  at  peace;  ” 

So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot  j 

God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

“ Two  hands  to  work  addrest 
Aye  for  his  praise ; 

Two  feet  that  never  rest 
Walking  his  ways ; 

Two  eyes  that  look  above 
Through  all  their  tears ; 

Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  ; ” 

So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees ; 

Pardon  those  erring  prayers!  Father,  here  these! 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 


19 


290 


THE  ANGELS’  WHISPER. 


THE  ANGELS’  WHISPER. 


BABY  was 
sleeping ; 
Its  mother 
was  weep- 
ing; 

For  her  hus 
band  was 
far  on  the 
wild  rag- 
ing sea ; 
And  the 
tem  pest 
was  swell- 
ing 

Round  the 

fisher- 
man’s 
dwelling ; 
And  she  cried,  “ Der- 
mot,  darling, 
O come  back 
to  me  ! ” 

Her  beads  while 
she  n u m - 
bered, 

The  baby  still 
slumbered, 

And  smiled  in  her  face 
as  she  bended 
her  knee  : 

“ O,  blest  be  that 
warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

“And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o’er  thy  sleeping, 

O,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  ! 

And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They’d  watch  o’er  thy  father! 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee.” 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe’s  father  to  see ; 
And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a blessing, 

Said,  “ I knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with 
thee.” 

Samuel  Lover. 


SWEET,  BE  NOT  PROUD. 

WEET,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes, 
Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies ; 
Nor  be  you  proud  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,  yours  yet  free. 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair, 

Which  wantons  with  the  lovesick  air ; 

When  as  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 

Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 


Will  last  to  be  a precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty’s  gone. 

Robert  Herrick. 


BEFORE  THE  RAIN. 

E knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 
A spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 


Of  marshes,  and  swamps,  and  dismal  fens — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers. 
Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed' 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 
Shrunk  in  the  wind — and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


AFTER  THE  RAiN. 

HE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church’s  dizzy  vane 
' The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy  leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 

A dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 

A globe  of  gold,  a disk,  a speck  j 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a dove 

With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


I WONDER. 

WONDER  if  ever  a song  was  sung 
But  the  singer’s  heart  sang  sweeter ! 

I wonder  if  ever  a rhyme  was  rung 
But  the  thought  surpassed  the  meter ! 

I wonder  if  ever  a sculptor  wrought 

’Till  the  cold  stone  echoed  his  ardent  thought! 
Or  if  ever  a painter,  with  light  and  shade, 

The  dream  of  his  inmost  heart  portrayed  ! 

I wonder  if  ever  a rose  was  found 
And  there  might  not  be  a fairer  ! 

Or  if  ever  a glittering  gem  was  ground. 

And  we  dreamed  not  of  a rarer ! 

Ah  ! never  on  earth  shall  we  find  the  best ! 

But  it  waits  for  us  in  the  land  of  rest ; 

And  a perfect  thing  we  shall  never  behold 
Till  we  pass  the  portal  of  shining  gold. 

Anonymous. 


THE  PASSIONS. 


29I 


THE  PASSIONS. 


HEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting — 

Possessed  beyond  the  Muse’s  painting ; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  : 

Till  once,  ’tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 

Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  ; 

And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

Each — for  Madness  ruled  the  hour — 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear,  his  hand  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid ; 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E’en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed — his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hands,  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair — 

Low  sullen  sounds  ! — his  grief  beguiled  ; 

A solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 

’Twas  sad,  by  fits — by  starts,  ’twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O Hope  ! with  eyes  so  fair — 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And,  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 

She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  her  song; 

And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her 
golden  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a frown, 
Revenge  impatient  rose. 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down ; 
And,  with  a withering  look, 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 

And  blew  a blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne’er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woes 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat ; 

And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 


Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien ; 

While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ! 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed ; * 

And  now  it  courted  Love — now,  raving,  called  on 
Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  ; 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 

Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure 
stole ; 

Or,  o’er  some  haunted  streams,  with  fond  delay — 
Round  a holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing — 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh  ! how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a nymph  of  healthiest  hue,. 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air  that  dale  and  thicket  rung  : 
The  hunter’s  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known ! 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed 
queen, 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 

And  Sport  leaped  up  and  seized  his  beechen 
spear. 

Last  came  Joy’s  ecstatic  trial  : 

He,  with  viny  crown,  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain. 
They  saw  in  Tempe’s  vale  her  native  maids, 

Amid  the  festal-sounding  shades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing; 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a gay  fantastic  round — 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound — 
And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 

Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

Collins. 


292 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 


OME,  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts. 
Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 

To  aggravate  the  inward  grief, 

That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn  ; 
The  world  has  many  cruel  points, 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn, 

And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 

In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn — 

True  honor’s  dearth,  affection’s  death, 
Neglectful  pride,  and  cankering  scorn, 

With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  watered  since  the  world  was  born. 

The  world  ! — it  is  a wilderness 
Where  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree ; 

For  thus  my  gloomy  phantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me  ! 

Come  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 

And  fancy  clouds  where  no  clouds  be ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 

And  make  heav’n  black  with  misery. 

Why  should  birds  sing  such  merry  notes, 
Unless  they  were  more  blessed  than  we  ? 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats, 

Except  sweet  nightingale  ; for  she 
Was  born  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more 
With  her  sad  melody. 

Why  shines  the  sun,  except  that  he 
Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide. 

And  pensive  shades  for  Melancholy, 

When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  ? 

Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wave, 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again, 

Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 

And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain  ! 

I saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud, 

Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale; 

And  ever  since  I have  looked  on  all 
As  creatures  doomed  to  fail ! 

Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die  ? 

Ay,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 

And  think  of  our  loves’  cheeks ; 

And  oh,  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 
To  bring  death’s  winter  hither! 

Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks, 


Months,  years,  and  ages  shrink  to  nought ; 
And  age  past  is  but  a thought ! 

Ay,  let  us  think  of  Him  a while, 

That,  with  a coffin  for  a boat, 

Rows  daily  o’er  the  Stygian  moat, 

And  for  our  table  choose  a tomb  : 

There’s  dark  enough  in  any  skull 
To  charge  with  black  a raven  plume ; 

And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 
A winding  sheet  hath  ample  room, 

Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 
Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 

How  wide  the  yew  tree  spreads  its  gloom. 
And  o’er  the  dead  lets  fall  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  families 
That  sleep  around  its  stem ! 

How  cold  the  dead  have  made  these  stones. 
With  natural  drops  kept  ever  wet ! 

Lo ! here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 
Doth  now  remember  or  forget, 

Are  in  one  common  ruin  hurled, 

And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met ; 

The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone. 

The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 

Is’t  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls, 

And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 
Our  love  upon  a rose’s  leaf, 

Our  hearts  upon  a violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet ; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 
Beforehand  we  must  fret : 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again ; 

But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  lov«, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 

O clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 
And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss ; 

For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 
A thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this  : 
Forgive,  if  somewhile  I forget, 

In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 

Ev’n  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade, 


LOVE’S  AUTUMN . 


293 


And  there  is  even  a happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  with  a spell  invoke 
The  full-orbed  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes ; 
Not  bright,  not  bright,  but,  with  a cloud 
Lapped  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 
All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 
The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 
Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  Moon  ! she  is  the  source  of  sighs. 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad ; 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 
The  same  calm  quiet  look  she  had, 

As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad  ; 

The  same  fair  light  that  shown  in  streams, 
The  fairy  lamp  that  charmed  the  lad  ; 


For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men’s  brains  and  makes  them  mad. 

All  things  are  touched  with  Melancholy, 

Born  of  the  secret  soul’s  mistrust, 

To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weighed  down  with  vile  degraded  dust; 

Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 

Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 

O give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 

Her  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy ! 

There  is  no  music  in  the  life 

That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely ; 

There’s  not  a string  attuned  to  mirth, 

But  has  its  chord  in  Melancholy. 

Thomas  Hood. 


LOVE’S  AUTUMN. 


BETTER  THINGS. 


WOULD  not  lose  a single  silvery  ray 
Of  those  white  locks,  which,  like  a milky 
way, 

Streak  the  dusk  midnight  of  thy  raven  hair ; 


ETTER  to  smell  the  violet  cool,  than  sip 
the  glowing  wine ; 

Better  to  hark  a hidden  brook,  than  watch 
a diamond  shine. 


I would  not  lose,  O Sweet ! the  misty  shine 
Of  those  half-saddened,  thoughtful  eyes  of  thine, 
Whence  love  looks  forth,  touched  by  the  shadow  of 
care ; 

I would  not  miss  the  droop  of  thy  dear  mouth, 

The  lips  less  dewy-red  than  when  the  south — 

The  young  south  wind  of  passion — sighed  o’er  them ; 


Better  the  love  of  a gentle  heart,  than  beauty’s  favor 
proud ; 

Better  the  rose’s  living  seed,  than  roses  in  a crowd. 

Better  to  love  in  loneliness,  than  to  bask  in  love  all 
day; 

Better  the  fountain  in  the  heart,  than  the  fountain  by 
the  way. 


I would  not  miss  each  delicate  flower  that  blows 
On  thy  wan  cheek  like  soft  September’s  rose, 
Blushing  but  faintly  on  its  faltering  stem  ; 


Better  be  fed  by  a mother’s  hand,  than  eat  alone  at 
will ; 

Better  to  trust  in  God,  than  say  : “ My  goods  my 
storehouse  fill.” 


I would  not  miss  the  air  of  chastened  grace, 

Which,  breathed  divinely  from  thy  patient  face, 

Tells  of  love’s  watchful  anguish  merged  in  rest. 

Nought  would  I lose  of  all  thou  hast  or  art, 

O friend  supreme  ! whose  constant,  stainless  heart 
Doth  house,  unknowing,  many  an  angel  guest. 

Their  presence  keeps  thy  spiritual  chambers  pure, 
While  the  flesh  fails,  strong  love  grows  more  and  more 
Divinely  beautiful,  with  perished  years. 

Thus,  at  each  slow,  but  surely  deepening  sign 
Of  life’s  decay,  we  will  not,  Sweet,  repine, 

Nor  greet  its  mellowing  close  with  thankless  tears. 

Love’s  spring  was  fair,  love’s  summer  brave  and  bland, 
But  through  love’s  autumn  mist  I view  the  land, 

The  land  of  deathless  summers  yet  to  be ; 

There  I behold  thee  young  again  and  bright, 

In  a great  flood  of  rare,  transfiguring  light ; 

But  there,  as  here,  thou  smilest,  Love,  on  me  ! 

Paul  H.  Hayne. 


Better  to  be  a little  wise,  than  in  knowledge  to 
abound ; 

Better  to  teach  a child,  than  toil  to  fill  perfection’s 
round. 

Better  to  sit  at  a master’s  feet,  than  thrill  a listening 
State ; 

Better  suspect  that  thou  art  proud,  than  be  sure  that 
thou  art  great. 

Better  to  walk  the  real  unseen,  than  watch  the  hour’s 
event; 

Better  the  “ Well  done ! ” at  the  last,  than  the  ail 
with  shouting  rent. 

Better  to  have  a quiet  grief,  than  a hurrying  delight ; 

Better  the  twilight  of  the  dawn,  than  the  noonday 
burning  bright. 

Better  a death  when  work  is  done,  than  earth’s  most 
favored  birth ; 

Better  a child  in  God’s  great  house,  than  the  king  of 
all  the  earth. 

George  McDonald. 


294 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

IS  believed  that  this 
harp,  which  I 
wake  now  for 
thee, 

Was  a Siren  of  old, 
who  sung  under 
the  sea ; 

And  who  often,  at 
eve,  through  the 
bright  billow 
roved, 

To  meet,  on  the 
green  shore,  a 
youth  whom  she 
loved. 

But  she  loved  him 
in  vain,  for  he 
left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears,  all  the 
night,  her  gold 
ringlets  to  steep, 
Till  Heaven  looked 
with  pity  on 
true-love  so 
warm, 

And  changed  to  this 
soft  harp  the  sea- 
maiden’s form. 

Still  her  bosom  rose 
fair — still  her 

cheek  smiled  the 
same — 

While  her  sea-beau- 
ties gracefully 
curled  round  the 
frame ; 

And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its  bright 
rings, 

Fell  o’er  her  white  arm,  to  make  the  gold  strings  ! 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  harp  so  long  hath  been 
known 

To  mingle  love’s  language  with  sorrow’s  sad  tone; 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  be  love  when  I’m  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

CASABIANCA. 

[Young  Casablanca,  a boy  about  thirteen  years  old,  son  of  the 
Admiral  of  the  Orient,  remained  at  his  post  (in  the  Battle  of  the 
Nile)  after  the  ship  had  taken  fire  and  all  the  guns  had  been 
abandoned,  and  perished  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the 
flames  had  reached  the  powder.] 

HE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 

Whence  all  but  him  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle’s  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o’er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 

A creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A proud  though  childlike  form. 


The  flames  rolled  on  ; he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father’s  word  ; 

That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  “ Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  be  done  ? ” 

He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 
Unconscious  of  his  son. 

“ Speak,  father!  ” once  again  he  criedj 
“ If  I may  yet  be  gone ! ” 

And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames-  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 

And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 
In  still  yet  brave  despair* 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

“ My  father ! must  I stay  ! ” 

While  o’er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud. 
The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a burst  of  thunder  sound ; 

The  boy — Oh  ! where  was  he  ? 

Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strewed  the  sea — 

With  shroud  and  mast  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part — 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


FORGIVENESS. 

Y heart  was  gall’d  with  bitter  wrong, 
Revengeful  feelings  fired  my  blood, 

I brooded  hate  with  passion  strong. 

While  round  my  couch  black  demons 
stood. 

Kind  Morpheus  wooed  my  eyes  in  vain, 

My  burning  brain  conceived  a plan  ; 

Revenge  ! I cried,  in  bitter  strain, 

But  conscience  whispered,  “ be  a man.’* 


Forgive  ! a gentle  spirit  cried, 

I yielded  to  my  nobler  part, 

Uprose  and  to  my  foe  I hied, 

Forgave  him  freely  from  my  heart. 

The  big  tears  from  their  fountain  rose, 

He  melted,  vowed  my  friend  to  be. 

That  night  I sank  in  sweet  repose 

And  dreamed  that  angels  smiled  on  me. 

Anonymous- 


NIGHTFALL 


NIGHTFALL. 


LONE  I stand; 

On  either  hand 

In  gathering  gloom  stretch  sea  and  land ; 
Beneath  my  feet, 

With  ceaseless  beat, 

The  waters  murmur  low  and  sweet. 


Slow  falls  the  night : 

The  tender  light 

Of  stars  grows  brighter  and  more  bright. 
The  lingering  ray 
Of  dying  day 

Sinks  deeper  down  and  fades  away. 


295 


296 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE , IN  MACBETH 


Now  fast  and  slow 
The  south  winds  blow, 

And  softly  whisper,  breathing  low, 
With  gentle  grace 
They  kiss  my  face, 

Or  fold  me  in  their  cool  embrace. 

Where  one  pale  star. 

O’er  waters  far, 

Droops  down  to  touch  the  harbor  bar, 
A faint  light  gleams, 

A light  that  seems 
To  grow  and  grow  till  nature  teems 

With  mellow  haze ; 

And  to  my  gaze 
Comes  rising,  with  its  rays 
No  longer  dim, 

The  moon  ; its  rim 
In  splendor  gilds  the  billowy  brim. 


I watch  it  gain 
The  heavenly  plain ; 

Behind  it  trails  a starry  train — 

While  low  and  sweet 
The  wavelets  beat 
Their  murmuring  music  at  my  feet. 

Fair  night  of  June ! 

Yon  silver  moon 

Gleams  pale  and  still.  The  tender  tune- 
Faint  floating,  plays 
In  moonlit  lays 
A melody  of  other  days. 

’Tis  sacred  ground — 

A peace  profound 

Comes  o’er  my  soul.  I hear  no  sound, 

Save  at  my  feet 
The  ceaseless  beat 

Of  waters  murmuring  low  and  sweet. 

W.  W.  Ellsworth. 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE,  IN  MACBETH. 

ROM  my  boyish  days  I had  always  felt  a great  perplexity  on  one  point 
in  Macbeth.  It  was  this  : the  knocking  at  the  gate,  which  succeeds  to 
the  murder  of  Duncan,  produced  to  my  feelings  an  effect  for  which  I 
never  could  account.  The  effect  was,  that  it  reflected  back  upon  the  mur- 
der a peculiar  awfulness  and  a depth  of  solemnity ; yet,  however  obstinately  I en- 
deavored with  my  understanding  to  comprehend  this,  for  many  years  I never  could 
see  why  it  should  produce  such  an  effect.  Here  I pause  for  one  moment,  to  exhort 
the  reader  never  to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it  stands  in  oppo- 
sition to  any  other  faculty  of  his  mind.  The  mere  understanding,  however  useful 
and  indispensable,  is  the  meanest  faculty  in  the  human  mind,  and  the  most  to  be 
distrusted;  and  yet  the  great  majority  of  people  trust  to  nothing  else;  which  may 
do  for  ordinary  life,  but  not  for  philosophical  purposes. 

My  understanding  could  furnish  no  reason  why  the  knocking  at  the  gate  in 
Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct  or  reflected.  In  fact,  my  understanding 
said  positively  that  it  could  not  produce  any  effect.  But  I knew  better : I felt  that 
it  did ; and  I waited  and  clung  to  the  problem  until  further  knowledge  should  enable 
me  to  solve  it.  At  length  I solved  it  to  my  own  satisfaction,  and  my  solution  is 
this  : Murder  in  ordinary  cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed  to  the  case 
of  the  murdered  person,  is  an  incident  of  coarse  and  vulgar  horror ; and  for  this 
reason,  that  it  flings  the  interest  exclusively  upon  the  natural  but  ignoble  instinct 
by  which  we  cleave  to  life ; an  instinct  which,  as  being  indispensable  to  the  primal 
law  of  self-preservation,  is  the  same  in  kind  (though  different  in  degree)  among  all 
living  creatures : this  instinct,  therefore,  because  it  annihilates  all  distinctions,  and 
degrades  the  greatest  of  men  to  the  level  of  “ the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,M 
exhibits  human  nature  in  its  most  abject  and  humiliating  attitude. 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE,  IN  MACBETH. 


297 

Such  an  attitude  would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poet.  What,  then,  must  he 
do  ? He  must  throw  the  interest  on  the  murderer.  Our  sympathy  must  be  with 
him  (of  course  I mean  a sympathy  of  comprehension,  a sympathy  by  which  we  enter 
into  his  feelings  and  are  made  to  understand  them — not  a sympathy  of  pity  or  ap- 
probation). In  the  murdered  person  all  strife  of  thought,  all  flux  and  reflux  of 
passion  and  of  purpose,  are  crushed  by  one  overwhelming  panic : the  fear  of  instant 
death  smites  him  “ with  its  petrific  mace.”  But  in  the  murderer — such  a murderer 
as  a poet  will  condescend  to — there  must  be  raging  some  great  storm  of  passion — - 
jealousy,  ambition,  vengeance,  hatred — which  will  create  a hell  within  him  ; and. 
into  this  hell  we  are  to  look. 

In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  own  enormous  and  teeming  faculty  of 
creation,  Shakespeare  has  introduced  two  murderers;  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands,, 
they  are  remarkably  discriminated : but,  though  in  Macbeth  the  strife  of  mind  is 
greater  than  in  his  wife — the  tiger  spirit  not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings  caught 
chiefly  by  contagion  from  her — yet,  as  both  were  finally  involved  in  the  guilt  of 
murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity  is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This 
was  to  be  expressed ; and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a more  propor- 
tionable antagonist  to  the  unoffending  nature  of  their  victim,  “ the  gracious  Duncan,” 
and  adequately  to  expound  “ the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off,”  this  was  to  be 
expressed  with  peculiar  energy.  We  were  to  be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature,, 
i.  e .,  the  divine  nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the  hearts  of  all  creatures, 
and  seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  man,  was  gone,  vanished,  extinct;  and  that  the 
fiendish  nature  had  taken  its  place.  And  as  this  effect  is  marvellously  accomplished 
in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies  themselves,  so  it  is  finally  consummated  by  the  ex- 
pedient under  consideration ; and  it  is  to  this  that  I now  solicit  the  reader’s  atten- 
tion. 

If  the  reader  has  ever  witnessed  a wife,  daughter,  or  sister  in  a fainting  fit,  he  may 
chance  to  have  observed  that  the  most  affecting  moment  in  such  a spectacle  is  that 
in  which  a sigh  and  a stirring  announce  the  recommencement  of  suspended  life. 
Or,  if  the  reader  has  ever  been  present  in  a vast  metropolis  on  the  day  when  some 
great  national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral  pomp  to  his  grave,  and  chancing  to  walk 
near  the  course  through  which  it  passed,  has  felt  powerfully,  in  the  silence  and  de- 
sertion of  the  streets,  and  in  the  stagnation  of  ordinary  business,  the  deep  interest 
which  at  that  moment  was  possessing  the  heart  of  man — if  all  at  once  he  should 
hear  the  deathlike  stillness  broken  up  by  the  sound  of  wheels  rattling  away  from 
the  scene,  and  making  known  that  the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he  will  be 
aware  that  at  no  moment  was  his  sense  of  the  complete  suspension  and  pause  in 
ordinary  human  concerns  so  full  and  affecting,  as  at  that  moment  when  the  suspen- 
sion ceases  and  the  goings-on  of  human  life  are  suddenly  resumed. 

All  action  in  any  direction  is  best  expounded,  measured,  and  made  apprehensible 
by  reaction.  Now  apply  this  to  the  case  in  Macbeth.  Here,  as  I have  said,  the 
retiring  of  the  human  heart  and  the  entrance  of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be  expressed 


298 


A PICTURE. 


and  made  sensible.  Another  world  has  stepped  in,  and  the  murderers  are  taken  out 
of  the  region  of  human  things,  human  purposes,  human  desires.  They  are  trans- 
figured: Lady  Macbeth  is  “ unsexed ; ” Macbeth  has  forgot  that  he  was  born  of 
woman  : both  are  conformed  to  the  image  of  devils ; and  the  world  of  devils  is  sud- 
denly revealed.  But  how  shall  this  be  conveyed  and  made  palpable  ? 

In  order  that  a new  world  may  step  in,  this  world  must  for  a time  disappear.  The 
murderers  and  the  murder  must  be  insulated — cut  off  by  an  immeasurable  gulf  from 
the  ordinary  tide  and  succession  of  human  affairs — locked  up  and  sequestered  in 
some  deep  recess ; we  must  be  made  sensible  that  the  world  of  ordinary  life  is  sud- 
denly arrested — laid  asleep — tranced — racked  into  a dread  armistice  : time  must  be 
annihilated ; relation  to  things  without  abolished  ; and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn 
into  a deep  syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion.  Hence  it  is,  that  when  the 
deed  is  done,  when  the  work  of  darkness  is  perfect,  then  the  world  of  darkness 
passes  away  like  a pageantry  in  the  clouds : the  knocking  at  the  gate  is  heard,  and 
it  makes  known  audibly  that  the  reaction  has  commenced : the  human  has  made  its 
reflux  upon  the  fiendish ; the  pulses  of  life  are  beginning  to  beat  again,  and  the 
re-establishment  of  the  goings-on  of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  first  makes  us  pro- 
foundly sensible  of  the  awful  parenthesis  that  had  suspended  them. 

O mighty  poet ! Thy  works  are  not  as  those  of  other  men,  simply  and  merely 
great  works  of  art,  but  are  also  like  the  phenomena  of  nature — like  the  sun  and  the 
sea,  the  stars  and  the  flowers,  like  frost  and  snow,  rain  and  dew,  hail-storm  and 
thunder — which  are  to  be  studied  with  entire  submission  of  our  own  faculties,  and 
in  the  perfect  faith  that  in  them  there  can  be  no  too  much  or  too  little,  nothing  use- 
less or  inert ; but  that,  the  further  we  press  in  our  discoveries,  the  more  we  shall  see 
proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where  the  careless  eye  had  seen 
nothing  but  accident.  De  Quincey. 

A PICTURE. 


MY  LITTLE 

UR  table  is  spread  for  two,  to- 
night— 

No  guests  our  bounty  share ; 
The  damask  cloth  is  snowy 
white, 

The  services  elegant  and  bright, 
Our  china  quaint  and  rare ; 

My  little  wife  presides, 

And  perfect  love  abides. 

The  bread  is  sponge,  the  butter 
gold, 

The  muffins  nice  and  hot, 

What  though  the  winds  without 
blow  cold? 

The  walls  a little  world  unfold, 

And  the  storm  is  soon  forgot, 

In  the  fire  light’s  cheerful  glow, 

Beams  a paradise  below. 


WIFE. 

A fairer  picture  who  has  seen  ? 

Soft  lights  and  shadows  blend; 

The  central  figure  of  the  scene, 

She  sits,  my  wife,  my  queen — 

Her  head  a little  bent ; 

And  in  her  eyes  of  blue 
I read  my  bliss  anew. 

I watch  her  as  she  pours  the  tea, 

With  quiet,  gentle  grace ; 

With  fingers  deft,  and  movements  free. 
She  mixes  in  the  cream  for  me, 

A bright  smile  on  her  face ; 

And,  as  she  sends  it  up, 

I pledge  her  in  my  cup. 

Was  ever  man  before  so  blest? 

I secretly  reflect, 


GOD'S-ACRE. 


299 


The  passing  thought  she  must  have  guessed, 
For  now  dear  lips  on  mine  are  pressed, 

An  arm  is  round  my  neck. 


Dear  treasure  of  my  life — 

God  bless  her — little  wife  ! 

Anonymous. 


GOD’S-ACRE. 


GO  TO  THY  REST. 


I like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God’s-Acre  ! It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a benison  o’er  the  sleeping  dust. 


O to  thy  rest,  fair  child ! 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
While  yet  so  gentle,  undefiled. 
With  blessings  on  thy  head. 


God’s-Acre  ! Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 
The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas ! no  more  their  own. 


Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 

Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid, 

Haste  from  this  dark  and  fearful  landj 
Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade. 


Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 
At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel’s  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 


Ere  sin  has  seared  the  breast. 

Or  sorrow  waked  the  tear, 

Rise  to  thy  throne  of  changeless  rest, 
In  yon  celestial  sphere ! 


Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom. 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 

With  that  of  flowers  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 


Because  thy  smile  was  fair, 
Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright, 
Because  thy  loving  cradle-care 
Was  such  a dear  delight, 


With  thy  rude  plowshare,  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Shall  love,  with  weak  embrace, 

Thy  upward  wing  detain  ? 

No ! gentle  angel,  seek  thy  place 
Amid  the  cherub  train. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


300 


THE  OLD  MILL. 


THE  OLD  MILL. 


Born  in  Philadelphia  in  1819,  the  author  of  this  poem  became  a member  of  the  medical  profession.  He  has  been  a frequent 
contributor  to  periodical  literature,  and  published  in  1855  a volume  of  poems,  and  in  1880  a spirited  American  ballad. 


And  the  man  goes  and  the  stream  flows, 

And  the  wheel  moves  slowly  round. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


ERE  from  the  brow  of  the 
hill  I look, 

Through  a lattice  of 
boughs  and  leaves, 
On  the  old  gray  mill  with  its  gam- 
brel roof, 

And  the  moss  on  its  rotting  eaves. 
I hear  the  clatter  that  jars  its  walls, 
And  the  rushing  water’s  sound, 
And  I see  the  black  floats  rise  and 
fall 

As  the  wheel  goes  slowly  round. 


I rode  there  often  when  I was 
young, 

With  my  grist  on  the  horse  be- 
fore, 

And  talked  with  Nelly,  the  miller’s 

girl, 

As  I waited  my  turn  at  the  door. 
And  while  she  tossed  her  ringlets 
brown, 

And  flirted  and  chatted  so  free, 
The  wheel  might  stop,  or  the  wheel 
might  go. 

It  was  all  the  same  to  me. 


*Tis  twenty  years  since  last  I stood 
On  the  spot  where  I stand  to-day, 

And  Nelly  is  wed,  and  the  miller 
is  dead, 

And  the  mill  and  I are  gray. 

But  both,  till  we  fall  into  ruin  and  wreck, 
To  our  fortune  of  toil  are  bound ; 


TRUE  GLORY. 

HATEVER  may  be  the  temporary  applause  of  men,  or  the  expressions  of 
public  opinion,  it  may  be  asserted,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  no 
true  and  permanent  Fame  can  be  founded,  except  in  labors  which  pro- 
mote the  happiness  of  mankind.  There  are  not  a few  who  will  join 
with  Milton  in  his  admirable  judgment  of  martial  renown  : — 

“ They  err  who  count  it  glorious  to  subdue 
By  conquest  far  and  wide,  to  overrun 
Large  countries,  and  in  field  great  battles  win, 

Great  cities  by  assault.  What  do  these  worthies 
But  rob,  and  spoil,  burn,  slaughter,  and  enslave 
Peaceable  nations,  neighboring  or  remote, 

Made  captive,  yet  deserving  freedoip  more 
Than  those,  their  conquerors,  who  leave  behind 
Nothing  but  ruin,  wheresoe’er  they  rove, 

And  all  the  flourishing  works  of  peace  destroy?  ” 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 


301 


Well  does  the  poet  give  the  paiin  to  moral  excellence ! But  it  is  from  the  lips 
■of  a successful  soldier,  cradled  in  war,  the  very  pink  of  the  false  heroism  of  battle, 
that  we  are  taught  to  appreciate  the  literary  Fame,  which,  though  less  elevated  than 
that  derived  from  disinterested  acts  of  beneficence,  is  truer  and  more  permanent  far 
than  any  bloody  Glory.  I allude  to  Wolfe,  the  conqueror  of  Quebec,  who  has  at- 
tracted, perhaps,  a larger  share  of  romantic  interest  than  any  of  the  gallant  generals 
in  English  history.  We  behold  him,  yet  young  in  years,  at  the  head  of  an  adven- 
turous expedition,  destined  to  prostrate  the  French  empire  in  Canada — guiding  and 
encouraging  the  firmness  of  his  troops  in  unaccustomed  difficulties — awakening  their 
personal  attachment  by  his  kindly  suavity,  and  their  ardor  by  his  own  example — 
climbing  the  precipitous  steeps  which  conduct  to  the  heights  of  the  strongest  for- 
tress on  the  American  continent — there,  under  its  walls,  joining  in  deadly  conflict — 
wounded — stretched  upon  the  field — faint  with  the  loss  of  blood — with  sight  already 
dimmed — his  life  ebbing  fast — cheered  at  last  by  the  sudden  cry  that  the  enemy  is 
fleeing  in  all  directions — and  then  his  dying  breath  mingling  with  shouts  of  victory. 
An  eminent  artist  has  portrayed  this  scene  of  death  in  a much-admired  picture. 
History  and  poetry  have  dwelt  upon  it  with  peculiar  fondness.  Such  is  the  Glory 
of  arms  ! But  there  is,  happily,  preserved  to  us  a tradition  of  this  day,  which  affords 
a gleam  of  a truer  Glory.  As  the  commander  floated  down  the  currents  of  the  St. 
Lawrence  in  his  boat,  under  cover  of  the  night,  in  the  enforced  silence  of  a military 
expedition,  to  effect  a landing  at  an  opportune  promontory,  he  was  heard  to  repeat 
to  himself  that  poem  of  exquisite  charms — then  only  recently  given  to  mankind, 
now  familiar  as  a household  word  wherever  the  mother-tongue  of  Gray  is  spoken 
— the  “ Elegy  in  a Country  Churchyard.”  Strange  and  unaccustomed  prelude  to 
the  discord  of  battle  ! And  as  the  ambitious  warrior  finished  the  recitation,  he  said 
to  his  companions,  in  a low  but  earnest  tone,  that  he  “ would  rather  be  the  author  of 
that  poem  than  take  Quebec.”  And  surely  he  was  right.  The  glory  of  that  vic- 
tory is  already  dying  out,  like  a candle  in  its  socket.  The  true  glory  of  the  poem 
still  shines  with  star-bright,  immortal  beauty.  Charles  Sumner. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 


boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea  ; 

But  before  I go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here’s  a double  health  to  thee ! 

Here’s  a sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 

And  a smile  to  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky’s  above  me, 

Here’s  a heart  for  every  fate  ! 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 


Though  a desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were’t  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

’Tis  to  thee  that  I would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  i 

Lord  Byron. 


302 


THE  PALACE  O’  THE  XING. 


ENCHANTMENT. 


HE  sails  we  see  on  the  ocean 

Are  as  white  as  white  can  be ; 
But  never  one  in  the  harbor 
As  white  as  the  sails  at  sea. 


Oh  ! distance,  thou  dear  enchanter, 
Still  hold  in  thy  magic  veil 
The  glory  of  far-off  mountains, 
The  gleam  of  the  far-off  sail ! 


And  the  clouds  that  crown  the  mountain 
With  purple  and  gold  delight, 

Turn  to  cold  gray  mist  and  vapor, 

Bre  ever  we  reach  the  height. 


Hide  in  thy  robes  of  splendor, 

Oh  ! mountain  cold  and  gray ! 

Oh  ! sail  in  thy  snowy  whiteness. 

Come  not  into  port,  I pray  ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  PALACE 

T’S  a bonnie  warl’  that  we’re  livin’  in  the 
noo, 

An’  sunny  is  the  lan’  we  often  travel 
throo ; 

But  in  vain  we  look  for  something  to  which 
our  heart  can  cling, 

For  its  beauty  is  as  naething  compared  to  the  palace 
o’  the  King. 

We  like  the  gilded  simmer,  wi’  its  merry,  merry  tread, 

An’  we  sigh  when  hoary  winter  lays  its  beauties  wi’ 
the  dead; 

For  though  bonnie  are  the  snow-flakes,  and  the  down 
on  winter’s  wing, 

It’s  fine  to  ken  it  daurna  touch  the  palace  o’  the  King. 

Then,  again,  I’ve  just  been  thinkin’  that  when  a thing 
here’s  sae  bricht, 

The  sun  in  a’  its  grandeur,  an’  the  mune  wi’  quiverin’ 
licht, 

The  ocean  i’  the  simmer,  or  the  woodland  i’  the 
spring, 

What  maun  it  be  up  yonner  i’  the  palace  o’  the  King. 


O’  THE  KING. 

It’s  here  we  hae  our  trials,  an’  it’s  here  that  He  pre- 
pares, 

A’  His  chosen  for  the  raiment  which  the  ransomed 
sinner  wears; 

An’  it’s  here  that  He  wad  hear  us,  ’mid  oor  tribula- 
tions  sing, 

We’ll  trust  oor  God  who  reigneth  i’  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

Though  His  palace  is  up  yonner,  He  has  kingdoms 
here  below, 

An’  we  are  His  embassadors,  wherever  we  may  go, 

We’ve  a message  to  deliver,  an’  we’ve  lost  anes  hame 
to  bring, 

To  be  leal  an’  loyal-hearted  i’  the  palace  o’  the  King. 

Oh  ! its  honor  heaped  on  honor  that  His  courtiers 
should  b«  ta’en 

Frae  the  wand’rin’  anes  He  died  for,  i’  this  warl  o’ 
sin  an’  pain, 

An’  its  fu’est  love  an’  service  that  the  Christian  aye 
should  bring 


RHYMES  FOR  HARD  TIMES . 303 


To  the  feet  o’  Him  who  reigneth  i’  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

An’  let  us  trust  Him  better  than  we’ve  ever  done  afore, 

For  the  King  will  feed  his  servants  frae  His  ever 
bounteous  store ; 

Let  us  keep  a closer  grip  o’  Him,  for  time  is  on  the 
wing, 

An’  sune  He’ll  come  an’  take  us  to  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

Its  iv’ry  halls  are  bonnie,  upon  which  the  rainbows 
shine, 

An’  its  Eden  bow’rs  are  trellised  wi’  a never  faden’ 
vine; 

An’  the  pearly  gates  o’  heaven  do  a glorious  radiance 
fling 


On  the  starry  floor  that  shimmers  i’  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

Noo  nicht  shall  be  in  heaven,  an’  nae  desolatin’  sea, 

An’  nae  tyrant  hoofs  shall  trample  i’  the  city  o’  the 
free ; 

There’s  an  everlastin’  daylight,  an’  a never  fading 
spring, 

Where  the  Lamb  is  a’  the  glory,  i’  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

We  see  our  friends  await  us  over  yonner  at  His  gate, 

Then  let  us  a’  be  ready,  for  ye  ken  it’s  gettin’  late, 

Let  oor  lamps  be  brightly  burning;  let’s  raise  oor 
voice  and  sing, 

Sune  we’ll  meet  to  part  nae  mair  i’  the  palace  o’  the 
King. 

William  Mitchell. 


RHYMES  FOR  HARD  TIMES. 


OURAGE,  brother  ! do  not  stumble, 
Though  thy  path  be  dark  as  night, 
There’s  a star  to  guide  the  humble  ; 
“ Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right.” 


Perish  policy  and  cunning ; 

Perish  all  that  fears  the  light, 
Whether  losing,  whether  winning, 

“ Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right.” 


Though  the  road  be  long  and  dreary, 
And  the  end  be  out  of  sight ; 

Foot  it  bravely,  strong  or  weary. 

“ Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right.” 


Shun  all  forms  of  guilty  passion, 

Fiends  can  look  like  angels  bright. 

Heed  no  custom,  school  or  fashion, 

“ Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right.” 

Rev.  N.  M’Leod. 


304  DUTIES  AND  RESPONSIBILITIES  OF  WOMAN 


DUTIES  AND  RESPONSIBILITIES  OF  WOMAN 


ends  ” may  see  fit  to  withhold  from 
angels,  so  long  as  you  have  the 


H,  if  this  latent  power  could  be 
aroused!  If  woman  would  shake 
off  this  slumber,  and  put  on  her 
strength,  her  beautiful  garments, 
how  would  she  go  forth  conquering  and  to 
conquer!  How  would  the  mountains  break 
forth  into  singing,  and  the  trees  of  the  field 
clap  their  hands  ! How  would  our  sin-stained 
earth  arise  and  shine,  her  light  being  come, 
and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  being  risen  upon 
her ! 

One  cannot  do  the  world’s  work ; but  one 
can  do  one’s  work.  You  may  not  be  able  to 
turn  the  world  from  iniquity ; but  you  can, 
at  least,  keep  the  dust  and  rust  from  gather- 
ing on  your  own  soul.  If  you  cannot  be 
directly  and  actively  engaged  in  fighting  the 
battle,  you  can,  at  least,  polish  your  armor 
and  sharpen  your  weapons,  to  strike  an 
effective  blow  when  the  hour  comes.  You 
can  stanch  the  blood  of  him  who  has  been 
wounded  in  the  fray — bear  a cup  of  cold 
water  to  the  thirsty  and  fainting— give  help 
to  the  conquered,  and  smiles  to  the  victor. 

You  can  gather  from  the  past  and  the 
present  stores  of  wisdom,  so  that,  when  the 
future  demands  it,  you  may  bring  forth  from 
your  treasures  things  new  and  old.  What- 
ever of  bliss  the  “ Divinity  that  shapes  our 
you,  you  are  but  very  little  lower  than  the 


“ Godlike  power  to  do— the  godlike  aim  to  know.” 

You  can  be  forming  habits  of  self-reliance,  sound  judgment,  perseverance,  and 
endurance,  which  may,  one  day,  stand  you  in  good  stead.  You  can  so  train  your- 
self to  right  thinking  and  right  acting,  that  uprightness  shall  be  your  nature,  truth 
your  impulse.  His  head  is  seldom  far  wrong,  whose  heart  is  always  right.  We 
bow  down  to  mental  greatness,  intellectual  strength,  and  they  are  divine  gifts , but 
moral  rectitude  is  stronger  than  they.  It  is  irresistible  always  in  the  end 
triumphant. 


DUTIES  AND  RESPONSIBILITIES  OF  WOMAN.  3° 5 

There  is  in  goodness  a penetrative  power  that  nothing  can  withstand.  Cunning 
and  malice  melt  away  before  its  mild,  open,  steady  glance.  Not  alone  on  the  fields 
where  chivalry  charges  for  laurels,  with  helmet  and  breastplate  and  lance  in  rest, 
can  the  true  knight  exultingly  exclaim, 

“ My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because  my  heart  is  pure;  ” 

but  wherever  man  meets  man,  wherever  there  is  a prize  to  be  won,  a goal  to  be 
reached.  Wealth,  and  rank,  and  beauty,  may  form  a brilliant  setting  to  the  diamond  ; 
but  they  only  expose  more  nakedly  the  false  glare  of  the  paste.  Only  when  the 
king’s  daughter  is  all  glorious  within,  is  it  fitting  and  proper  that  her  clothing  should 
be  of  wrought  gold. 

From  the  great  and  good  of  all  ages  rings  out  the  same  monotone.  The  high- 
priest  of  Nature,  the  calm-eyed  poet  who  laid  his  heart  so  close  to  hers,  that  they 
seemed  to  throb  in  one  pulsation,  yet  whose  ear  was  always  open  to  the  “ still  sad 
music  of  humanity,”  has  given  us  the  promise  of  his  life-long  wisdom  in  these 
grand  words: 

“ True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought. 

Can  still  suspect  and  still  revere  himself.” 

Through  the  din  of  twenty  rolling  centuries,  pierces  the  sharp,  stern  voice  of  the 
brave  old  Greek : “ Let  every  man,  when  he  is  about  to  do  a wicked  action,  above 
all  things  in  the  world,  stand  in  awe  of  himself,  and  dread  the  witness  within  him.” 
All  greatness,  and  all  glory,  all  that  earth  has  to  give,  all  that  Heaven  can  proffer, 
lies  within  the  reach  of  the  lowliest  as  well  as  the  highest ; for  He  who  spake  as 
never  man  spake,  has  said  that  the  very  “ kingdom  of  God  is  within  you.” 

Born  to  such  an  inheritance,  will  you  wantonly  cast  it  away?  With  such  a goal 
in  prospect,  will  you  suffer  yourself  to  be  turned  aside  by  the  sheen  and  shimmer 
of  tinsel  fruit  ? With  earth  in  possession,  and  Heaven  in  reversion,  will  you  go 
sorrowing  and  downcast,  because  here  and  there  a pearl  or  a ruby  fails  you  ? Nay, 
rather  forgetting  those  things  which  are  behind,  and  reaching  forth  unto  those  which 
are  before,  press  forward  ! 

Discontent  and  murmuring  are  insidious  foes ; trample  them  under  your  feet. 
Utter  no  complaint,  whatever  betide ; for  complaining  is  a sign  of  weakness.  If  your 
trouble  can  be  helped,  help  it;  if  not,  bear  it.  You  can  be  whatever  you  will  to  be. 
Therefore,  form  and  accomplish  worthy  purposes. 

If  you  walk  alone,  let  it  be  with  no  faltering  tread.  Show  to  an  incredulous  world 

“ How  grand  may  be  Life’s  might, 

Without  Love’s  circling  crown.” 

Or,  if  the  golden  thread  of  love  shine  athwart  the  dusky  warp  of  duty,  if  other  hearts 
depend  on  yours  for  sustenance  and  strength,  give  to  them  from  your  fulness  no 

20 


3°6 


ENDURANCE. 


stinted  measure.  Let  the  dew  of  your  kindness  fall  on  the  evil  and  the  good,  on  the 
just  and  on  the  unjust. 

Compass  happiness,  since  happiness  alone  is  victory.  On  the  fragments  of  your 
shattered  plans,  and  hopes,  and  love — on  the  heaped-up  ruins  of  your  past,  rear  a 
stately  palace,  whose  top  shall  reach  unto  heaven,  whose  beauty  shall  gladden  the 
eyes  of  all  beholders,  whose  doors  shall  stand  wide  open  to  receive  the  way-worn 
and  weary.  Life  is  a burden,  but  it  is  imposed  by  God.  What  you  make  of  it,  it 
will  be  to  you,  whether  a millstone  about  your  neck,  or  a diadem  upon  your  brow. 
Take  it  up  bravely,  bear  it  on  joyfully,  lay  it  down  triumphantly. 

Gail  Hamilton. 

ENDURANCE. 


OW  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not 
break ! 

How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not 
die ! 

I question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 

Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  end  more  nigh. 

Death  chooses  his  own  time ; till  that  is  worn, 

All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  surgeon’s  knife ; 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  steel, 

Whose  edge  seems  searching  for  the  quivering  life ; 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal 
That  still,  although  the  trembling  flesh  be  torn, 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 


We  seek  some  small  escape — we  weep  and  pray — 
But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts  are  still, 
Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 

But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life — 

We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own — 

Anon  it  faints  and  falls  in  deadly  strife, 

Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken,  and  alone ; 
But  ah  ! we  do  not  die  with  those  we  mourn — 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things — famine,  thirst. 
Bereavement,  pain  ! all  grief  and  misery, 

All  woe  and  sorrow ; life  inflicts  its  worst 
On  soul  and  body — but  we  cannot  die, 

Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  and  worn^ 
Lo ! all  things  can  be  borne. 

Elizabeth  Akers. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 


BOU  BEN  ADHEM — may  his  tribe  in- 
crease ! 

Awoke  one  night  from  a deep  dream  of 
peace, 

And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a lily  in  bloom, 


An  angel,  writing  in  a book  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 

And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

“ What  writest  thou  ? ” The  vision  raised  its  head. 
And,  with  a look  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  “ The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord.’* 


AN  ALLITERATIVE  POEM. 


307 


“And  is  mine  one  ? ” said  Abou.  “ Nay,  not  so,” 
Replied  the  angel.  Abou  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerily  still ; and  said,  “ I pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.” 


The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.  The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a great  wakening  light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed  5 
And  lo  ! Ben  Adhem’s  name  led  all  the  rest. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


AN  ALLITERATIVE  POEM. 


In  a volume  of  poems,  " Songs  of  Singularity,”  by  the  London  “ Hermit,”  is  the  following  specimen  of  alliterative  verse.  Thej 
are  supposed  to  be  a serenade  in  M flat,  sung  by  Major  Marmaduke  Muttinhead  to  Mademoiselle  Madeline  Mondoza  Marriott  *,— » 


Y Madeline,  my  Madeline! 

Mark  my  melodious  midnight  moans; 
Much  may  my  melting  music  mean, 

My  modulated  monotones. 

My  mandolin’s  mild  minstrelsy, 

My  mental  music  magazine, 

My  mouth,  my  mind,  my  memory 
Must  mingling  murmur  “ Madeline.” 

Muster  ’mid  midnight  masquerade, 

Mark  Moorish  maidens’,  matrons’  mien, 
’Mongst  Murcia’s  most  majestic  maids, 

Match  me  my  matchless  Madeline. 

Mankind’s  malevolence  may  make 
Much  melancholy  music  mine; 


Many  my  motives  may  mistake, 

My  modest  merits  much  malign. 

My  Madeline’s  most  mirthful  mood 
Much  mollifies  my  mind’s  machine ; 

My  mournfulness’  magnitude 

Melts — makes  me  merry,  Madeline  ! 

Match-making  ma’s  may  machinate, 
Manoeuvring  misses  me  misween; 

Mere  money  may  make  many  mate, 
My  magic  motto’s  “ Madeline  ! ” 

Melt,  most  mellifluous  melody, 

Must  Murcia’s  misty  mounts  marine* 

Meet  me  by  moonlight — marry  me. 
Madonna  mia  ! — Madeline! 


A LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A home  on  the  rolling  deep ; 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 
And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged  I pine 
On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 

O,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest’s  roar! 


Once  more  on  the  deck  I stand, 
Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 
Set  sail ! farewell  to  the  land ; 
The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foa*®* 
lake  an  ocean-bird  set  free — 

Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 
We’ll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown; 

But  with  a stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We’ll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down? 
And  the  song  of  our  heart  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 

A home  on  the  rolling  sea ! 

A life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 

Epes  Sargent. 


308 


SOLILOQUY  ON  IMMORTALITY 


FARRAGUT. 


SOLILOQUY  ON  IMMORTALITY. 


"TER  life’s  long 
watch  and  ward 
Sleep,  great  Sailor, 
while  the  bard 
Chants  your  daring. 

When,  of  late, 
Tempest  shook  the 
Bark  of  State, 
Fierce  and  deadly^ 
throe  on  throe, 
Horrid  with  a 
phosphor-glow, 
And  the  mountains 
rearing  gray 
Smote  her  reeling 
on  her  way — 

Day  and  night  who 
stood  a guard, 
Steadfast  aye  for  watch  and  ward  ? 

You,  great  Pilot,  who  were  made 
Quick  and  cautious,  bold  and  staid  ; 

Like  Decatur,  Perry,  Jones, 

Mastering  men  with  trumpet  tones. 

How  you  met  your  land’s  appeal 
Knows  New  Orleans,  knows  Mobile. 

Slumber,  free  from  watch  or  ward, 

Dweller  deep  in  grassy  yard 
Of  still  billows ! Keep  your  berth 
Narrow  in  the  quiet  earth  ! 

As  of  old  the  North  star  shines, 

Heaven  displays  the  ancient  signs, 

On  the  Ship  drives,  sure  and  slow. 

Though  the  Captain  sleeps  below. 

Only  sleeps  upon  his  sword  ; 

Slumber  earned  by  watch  and  ward  ; 

For  if  timbers  crack,  and  helm 
Fail  her,  and  a sea  o’erwhelm, 

Then  his  Spirit  shall  inform 
Some  new  queller  of  the  storm, 

Who  shall  bring,  though  stars  are  pale, 

The  Bark  in  safety  through  the  gale. 

Chas.  De  Kay. 


FROM  “ CATO,”  ACT  V.  SC.  I. 


Scene. — Cato,  sitting  in  a thoughtful  posture , with  Plato* 5 
book  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  in  his  hand  and  a drawn 
sword  on  the  table  by  him. 


T must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond 
desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality  ? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 
Of  falling  into  nought  ? Why  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  on  herself  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

’Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us ; 

’Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  a hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity  ! thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we 
pass ! 

The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before 


But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I hold.  If  there’s  a Power  above  us 
(And  that  there  is  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works),  he  must  delight  in  virtue; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when  ? or  where  ? This  world  was  made  fof 
Caesar. 

I’m  weary  of  conjectures — this  must  end  ’em. 


(. Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword.) 

Thus  am  I doubly  armed : my  death  and  life. 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me : 

This  in  a moment  brings  me  to  an  end; 

But  this  informs  me  I shall  never  die. 

The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 

The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years; 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 

The  wrecks  of  matter  and  the  crush  of  worlds ! 

Joseph  Addison. 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICISM. 


309 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICISM. 

f ^.MONG  critical  writers  it  is  a common  remark  that  the 
fashion  of  the  times  has  often  given  a temporary  rep- 
utation to  performances  of  very  little  merit,  and  neg- 
lected those  much  more  deserving  of  applause.  This 
circumstance  renders  it  necessary  that  some  person 
of  sufficient  sagacity  to  discover  and  to  describe  what 
is  beautiful,  and  so  impartial  as  to  disregard  vulgar 
prejudices,  should  guide  the  public  taste  and  raise 
merit  from  obscurity.  Without  arrogating  to  myself 
these  qualities,  I shall  endeavor  to  introduce  to  the 
nation  a work  which,  though  of  considerable  elegance, 
has  been  strangely  overlooked  by  the  generality  of 
If*  the  world.  The  performance  to  which  I allude  has  never  enjoyed  that 
celebrity  to  which  it  is  entitled,  but  it  has  of  late  fallen  into  disrepute 
chiefly  from  the  simplicity  of  its  style,  which  in  this  age  of  luxurious 
refinement  is  deemed  only  secondary  beauty,  and  from  its  being  the 
favorite  of  the  young  who  can  relish,  without  being  able  to  illustrate, 
its  excellence.  I rejoice  that  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  rescue  from 
neglect  this  inimitable  poem ; for  whatever  may  be  my  diffidence,  as 
I shall  pursue  the  manner  of  the  most  eminent  critics,  it  is  scarcely 
possible  to  err.  The  fastidious  reader  will  doubtless  smile  when  he 
is  informed  that  the  work  thus  highly  praised  is  a poem  consisting  of 
only  four  lines.  There  is  no  reason  why  a poet  should  be  restricted  in  his  number 
of  verses,  as  it  would  be  a very  sad  misfortune  if  every  rhymer  were  obliged  to  write 
a long' as  well  as  a bad  poem,  and  more  particularly  as  these  verses  contain  more 
beauties  than  we  often  find  in  a poem  of  four  thousand,  all  objections  to  its  brevity 
should  cease.  I must  at  the  same  time  acknowledge  that  at  first  I doubted  in  what 
class  of  poetry  it  should  be  arranged.  Its  extreme  shortness  and  its  uncommon 
metre  seemed  to  degrade  it  into  a ballad,  but  its  interesting  subject,  its  unity  of  plan, 
and,  above  all,  its  having  a beginning,  middle,  and  an  end,  decide  its  claim  to  the 
epic  rank.  I shall  now  proceed  with  the  candor,  though  not  with  the  acuteness,  of 
a good  critic  to  analyze  and  display  its  various  excellences.  The  opening  of  the 
poem  is  singularly  beautiful : 

Jack  and  Gill. 


The  first  duty  of  the  poet  is  to  introduce  his  subject,  and  there  is  no  part  of  poetry 
more  difficult.  We  are  told  by  the  great  critic  of  antiquity  that  we  should  avoid 
beginning  “ ab  ovo,”  but  go  into  the  business  at  once.  Here  our  author  is  very 
happy ; for  instead  of  telling  us,  as  an  ordinary  writer  would  have  done,  who  were 
the  ancestors  of  Jack  and  Gill — that  the  grandfather  of  Jack  was  a respectable  farmer, 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICIS3L 


Jio 

that  his  mother  kept  a tavern  at  the  sign  of  the  Blue  Bear,  and  that  Gill’s  father  was  a 
justice  of  the  peace  (once  of  the  quorum),  together  with  a catalogue  of  uncles  and 
aunts,  he  introduces  them  to  us  at  once  in  their  proper  persons.  I cannot  help 
accounting  it,  too,  as  a circumstance  honorable  to  the  genius  of  the  poet  that  he 
does  in  his  opening  call  upon  the  muse.  This  is  an  error  into  which  Homer  and 
almost  all  epic  writers  after  him  have  fallen,  since  by  thus  stating  their  case  to  the 
muse  and  desiring  her  to  come  to  their  assistance  they  necessarily  presupposed  that 
she  was  absent,  whereas  there  can  be  no  surer  sign  of  inspiration  than  for  a muse  to- 
come  unasked.  The  choice,  too,  of  names  is  not  unworthy  of  consideration.  It 
would  doubtless  have  contributed  to  the  splendor  of  the  poem  to  have  endowed  the 
heroes  with  long  and  sounding  titles,  which,  by  dazzling  the  eyes  of  the  reader, 
might  prevent  an  examination  of  the  work  itself.  These  circumstances  are  justly  dis- 
regarded by  our  author,  who  in  giving  plain  Jack  and  Gill  has  disdained  to  rely  on 
extrinsic  support.  In  the  very  choice  of  appellations  he  is,  however,  judicious. 
Had  he,  for  instance,  called  the  first  character  John,  he  might  have  given  him  more 
dignity,  but  he  would  not  so  well  harmonize  with  his  neighbor,  to  whom,  in  the 
course  of  the  work,  it  will  appear  he  must  necessarily  be  joined.  I know  it  may  be 
said  that  the  contraction  of  names  savors  too  much  of  familiarity,  and  the  lovers  of 
proverbs  may  tell  us  that  too  much  familiarity  breeds  contempt;  the  learned,  too, 
may  observe  that  Prince  Henry  somewhere  exclaims,  “ Here  comes  lean  Jack;  here 
comes  bare-bones ; ” and  the  association  of  the  two  ideas  detracts  much  from  the 
respectability  of  the  former.  Disregarding  these  cavils  I cannot  but  remark  that 
the  lovers  of  abrupt  openings,  as  in  the  Bard,  must  not  deny  their  praise  to  the 
vivacity  with  which  Jack  breaks  in  upon  us.  The  personages  being  now  seen,  their 
situation  is  next  to  be  discovered.  Of  this  we  are  immediately  informed  in  the  sub- 
sequent lines  when  we  are  told 

Jack  and  Gill 

Went  up  a hill. 

Here  the  imagery  is  distinct,  yet  the  description  concise.  We  instantly  figure  to 
ourselves  the  two  persons  travelling  up  an  ascent  which  we  may  accommodate  to 
our  own  ideas  of  declivity,  barrenness,  rockiness,  sandiness,  etc.,  all  of  which,  as  they 
■exercise  the  imagination,  are  beauties  of  a high  order.  The  reader  will  pardon  my 
presumption  if  I here  attempt  to  broach  a new  principle  which  no  critic  with  whom 
I am  acquainted  has  ever  mentioned.  It  is  this,  that  poetic  beauties  may  be  divided 
into  negative  and  positive,  the  former  consisting  of  mere  absence  of  fault,  the  latter 
in  the  presence  of  excellence ; the  first  of  an  inferior  order,  but  requiring  consider- 
able acumen  to  discover  them,  the  latter  of  a higher  rank,  but  obvious  to  the  meanest 
capacity.  To  apply  the  principle  in  this  case,  the  poet  meant  to  inform  us  that  two 
persons  were  going  up  a hill.  Now  the  act  of  going  up  a hill,  although  Locke  would 
pronounce  it  a very  complex  idea,  comprehending  person,  rising  ground,  trees,  etc., 
etc.,  is  an  operation  so  simple  as  to  need  no  description.  Had  the  poet,  therefore,  told 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICISM. 


31 1 

us  how  the  two  heroes  went  up,  whether  in  a cart  or  wagon,  and  entered  into  the 
thousand  particulars  which  the  subject  involves,  they  would  have  been  tedious,  be- 
cause superfluous.  The  omission  of  these  little  incidents,  and  telling  us  simply  that 
they  went  up  the  hill,  no  matter  how,  is  a very  high  negative  beauty.  These  con- 
siderations may  furnish  us  with  the  means  of  deciding  a controversy  arising  from 
the  variations  of  the  manuscripts,  some  of  which  have  it  a hill  and  others  the  hill, 
for,  as  the  description  is  in  no  other  part  local,  I incline  to  the  former  reading.  It 
has,  indeed,  been  suggested  that  the  hill  here  mentioned  was  Parnassus,  and  that  the 
two  persons  are  two  poets,  who,  having  overloaded  Pegasus,  the  poor  jaded  creature 
was  obliged  to  stop  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  whilst  they  ascended  for  water  to  recruit 
him.  This  interpretation,  it  is  true,  derives  some  countenance  from  the  consider- 
ation that  Jack  and  Gill  were  in  reality,  as  will  appear  in  the  course  of  the  poem, 
going  to  draw  water,  and  that  there  was  such  a place  as  Hippocrene — that  is,  a horse- 
pond — at  the  top  of  the  hill ; but  on  the  whole  I think  the  text,  as  I have  adopted  it, 
to  be  better  reading.  Having  ascertained  the  names  and  conditions  of  the  parties, 
the  reader  becomes  naturally  inquisitive  as  to  their  employment,  and  wishes  to  know 
whether  their  occupation  is  worthy  of  them.  This  laudable  curiosity  is  abundantly 
gratified  in  the  succeeding  lines,  for 

Jack  and  Gill 

Went  up  a hill 
To  fetch  a bucket  of  water. 

Here  we  behold  the  plan  gradually  unfolding;  a new  scene  opens  to  our  view,  and 
the  description  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  We  now  discover  their  object,  which  we 
were  before  left  to  conjecture.  We  see  the  two  friends,  like  Pylades  and  Orestes, 
assisting  and  cheering  each  other  in  their  labors,  gayly  ascending  the  hill,  eager  to 
arrive  at  the  summit  and  to  fill  their  bucket.  Here,  too,  is  a new  elegance.  Our 
acute  author  could  not  but  observe  the  necessity  of  machinery,  which  has  been  so 
much  commended  by  critics  and  admired  by  readers.  Instead,  however,  of  intro- 
ducing a host  of  gods  and  goddesses  who  might  have  only  impeded  the  journey  of 
his  heroes  by  the  intervention  of  the  bucket,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  simple  and 
conducive  to  the  progress  of  the  poem,  he  has  considerably  improved  on  the  ancient 
plan.  In  the  management  of  it  also  he  has  shown  much  judgment  by  making  the 
influence  of  the  machinery  and  the  subject  reciprocal,  for  while  the  utensil*  carries 
on  the  heroes,  it  is  itself  carried  on  by  them.  In  this  part,  too,  we  have  a deficiency 
supplied,  to  wit,  the  knowledge  of  their  relationship,  which  would  have  encumbered 
the  opening,  but  was  reserved  for  this  place.  Even  now  there  is  some  uncertainty 
whether  they  were  related  by  the  ties  of  consanguinity ; but  we  may  rest  assured 
they  were  friends,  for  they  did  join  in  carrying  the  instrument.  They  must,  from 
their  proximity  of  situation,  have  been  amicably  disposed,  and  if  one  alone  carried  the 
utensil  it  exhibited  an  amiable  assumption  of  the  whole  labor.  The  only  objection 
to  this  opinion  of  the  old  adage,  “ Bonus  dux  bonum  facit  militem,”  which  has  been 


312 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICISM. 


translated  “A  good  Jack  makes  a good  Gill,”  is,  therefore,  by  intimating  a superiority 
in  the  former.  If  such  was  the  case,  it  seems  the  poet  wished  to  show  his  hero  in 
retirement,  and  convince  the  world  that  however  illustrious  he  might  be,  he  did  not 
despise  manual  labor.  It  has  also  been  objected  (for  every  Homer  has  his  Zoilus) 
that  their  employment  is  not  sufficiently  dignified  for  epic  poetry ; but  in  answer  to 
this  it  must  be  remarked  that  it  was  the  opinion  of  Socrates  and  many  other  philos- 
ophers that  beauty  should  be  estimated  by  utility,  and  surely  the  purpose  of  the 
heroes  must  have  been  beneficial.  They  ascended  the  rugged  mountain  to  draw 
water,  and  drawing  water  is  certainly  more  conducive  to  human  happiness  than 
drawing  blood,  as  do  the  boasted  heroes  of  the  Iliad,  or  roving  on  the  ocean  and 
invading  other  men’s  property,  as  did  the  pious  Aeneas.  Yes,  they  went  to  draw 
water.  Interesting  scene ! It  might  have  been  drawn  for  the  purpose  of  culinary 
consumption;  it  might  have  been  to  quench  the  thirst  of  harmless  animals  who  relied 
on  them  for  support ; it  might  have  been  to  feed  a sterile  soil  and  revive  the  droop- 
ing plants  which  they  raised  by  their  labors.  Is  not  our  author  more  judicious  than 
Apollinius,  who  chooses  for  the  heroes  of  his  Argonautics  a set  of  rascals  undertaking 
to  steal  a sheep-skin?  Do  we  not  find  the  amiable  Rebecca  busy  at  the  well  ? Does 
not  one  of  the  maidens  in  the  Odyssey  delight  us  by  her  diligence  in  the  same  sit- 
uation ? and  has  not  the  learned  Dean  proved  that  it  was  quite  fashionable  in  Pelo- 
ponnesus ? Let  there  be  an  end  to  such  frivolous  remarks.  But  the  descriptive  part 
is  now  finished,  and  the  author  hastens  to  the  catastrophe.  At  what  part  of  the 
mountain  the  well  was  situated,  what  was  the  reason  of  the  sad  misfortune,  or  how 
the  prudence  of  Jack  forsook  him,  we  are  not  informed,  but  so,  alas ! it  happened, 

Jack  fell  down — 

Unfortunate  John  ! At  the  moment  when  he  was  nimbly,  for  aught  we  know,, 
going  up  the  hill,  perhaps  at  the  moment  when  his  toils  were  to  cease,  and  he  had 
filled  the  bucket,  he  made  an  unfortunate  step,  his  centre  of  gravity,  as  philosophers 
would  say,  fell  beyond  his  base,  and  he  tumbled.  The  extent  of  his  fall  does  not, 
however,  appear  until  the  next  line,  as  the  author  feared  to  overwhelm  us  by  an  im- 
mediate disclosure  of  his  whc>le  misfortune.  Buoyed  by  hope,  we  suppose  his  afflic- 
tion not  quite  remediless,  that  his  fall  was  an  accident  to  which  the  wayfarers  of  this 
life  are  daily  liable,  and  we  anticipate  his  immediate  rise  to  resume  his  labors.  But 
how  we  are  deceived  by  the  heart-rending  tale  that 

Jack  fell  down 

And  broke  his  crown — 

Nothing  now  remains  but  to  deplore  the  premature  fate  of  unhappy  John.  The 
mention  of  the  crown  has  much  perplexed  the  commentators.  The  learned  Micro- 
philus,  in  the  five  hundred  and  thirteenth  page  of  his  “ Curtain  Remarks  ” on  the 
poem,  thinks  he  can  find  in  it  some  allusion  to  the  story  of  Alfred,  who,  he  says,  is 


JACK  AND  GILL— A MOCK  CRITICISM . 


313 


known  to  have  lived  during  his  concealment  in  a mountainous  country,  and  as 
he  watched  the  cakes  on  the  fire,  might  have  been  sent  to  bring  water. 

But  his  acute  annotator,  Vandergruten,  has  detected  the  fallacy  of  such  a suppo* 
sition,  though  he  falls  into  an  equal  error  in  remarking  that  Jack  might  have  carried 
a crown  or  half  a crown  in  his  hand,  which  was  fractured  in  the  fall.  My  learned 
reader  will  doubtless  agree  with  me  in  conjecturing  that  as  the  crown  is  often  used 
metaphorically  for  the  head,  and  that  part  is,  or  without  any  disparagement  to  the 
unfortunate  sufferer  might  have  been,  the  heaviest,  it  was  really  his  pericranium 
which  sustained  the  damage.  Having  seen  the  fate  of  Jack,  we  are  anxious  to 
know  the  lot  of  his  companion.  Alas  ! 

And  Gill  came  tumbling  after. 

Here  the  distress  thickens  on  us.  Unable  to  support  the  loss  of  his  friend,  he 
followed  him,  determined  to  share  his  disaster,  and  resolved,  that  as  they  had  gone 
up  together,  they  should  not  be  separated  as  they  came  down.  In  the  midst  of  our 
afflictions,  let  us  not,  however,  be  unmindful  of  the  poet’s  merit,  which,  on  this  oc- 
casion, is  conspicuous.  He  evidently  seems  to  have  in  view  the  excellent  observa- 
tion of  Adam  Smith,  that  our  sympathy  arises  not  from  the  view  of  a passion,  but 
of  the  situation  which  excites  it.  Instead  of  unnecessary  lamentation,  he  gives  us 
the  real  state  of  the  case  ; avoiding  at  the  same  time  that  minuteness  of  detail  which 
is  so  common  among  the  pathetic  poets,  and  which,  by  dividing  a passion,  and  tear- 
ing it  to  rags,  as  Shakespeare  says,  destroys  its  force.  Thus,  when  Cowley  tells  us, 
that  his  mistress  shed  tears  enough  to  save  the  world  if  it  had  been  on  fire,  we  im- 
mediately think  of  a house  on  fire,  ladders,  engines,  crowds  of  people,  and  other 
circumstances,  which  drive  away  everything  like  feeling ; when  Pierre  is  describing 
the  legal  plunder  of  Jafifier’s  house,  our  attention  is  diverted  from  the  misery  of  Bel- 
videra  to  the  goods  and  chattels  of  him  the  said  Jaffier:  but  in  the  poem  before  us, 
the  author  has  just  hit  the  dividing  line  between  the  extreme  conciseness  which  might 
conceal  necessary  circumstances,  and  the  prolixity  of  narration,  which  would  intro- 
duce immaterial  ones.  So  happy  indeed  is  the  account  of  Jack’s  destruction,  that, 
had  a physician  been  present,  and  informed  us  of  the  exact  place  of  the  skull  which 
received  the  hurt,  whether  it  was  occipitis,  or  which  of  the  osso  bregmatis  that  was 
. fractured,  or  what  part  of  the  lambdoidal  suture  was  the  point  of  injury,  we  could 
not  have  a clearer  idea  of  this  misfortune.  Of  the  bucket  we  are  told  nothing,  but 
as  it  is  probable  that  it  fell  with  its  supporters,  we  have  a scene  of  misery  unequalled 
in  the  whole  compass  of  tragic  description. 

Imagine  to  ourselves  Jack  rapidly  descending,  perhaps  rolling  over  and  over  down 
the  mountain,  the  bucket,  as  the  lighter,  moving  along  and  pouring  forth  (if  it  had 
been  filled)  its  liquid  stream,  Gill  following  in  confusion  with  a quick  and  circular 
and  headlong  motion  ; add  to  this  the  dust,  which  they  might  have  collected  and 
dispersed,  with  the  blood  which  must  have  flowed  from  John’s  head,  and  we  will 


3 14 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 


witness  a catastrophe  highly  shocking,  and  feel  an  irresistible  impulse  to  run  for  a 
doctor.  The  sound,  too,  charmingly  “ echoes  to  the  sense,” 

Jack  fell  down 

And  broke  his  crown 

And  Gill  came  tumbling  after. 

The  quick  succession  of  movements  is  indicated  by  an  equally  rapid  motion  of 
the  short  syllables,  and  in  the  last  line  Gill  rolls  with  a greater  sprightliness  and  vi- 
vacity than  even  the  stone  of  Sisyphus. 

Having  expatiated  so  largely  on  its  particular  merits,  let  us  conclude  by  a brief  re- 
view of  its  most  prominent  beauties.  The  subject  is  the  fall  of  men,  a subject  high, 
interesting,  worthy  of  a poet : the  heroes,  men  who  do  commit  a single  fault,  and 
whose  misfortunes  are  to  be  imputed,  not  to  indiscretion,  but  to  destiny.  To  the 
illustration  of  this  subject,  every  part  of  the  poem  conduces.  Attention  is  neither 
wearied  by  multiplicity  of  trivial  incidents  nor  distracted  by  frequency  or  digression. 
The  poet  prudently  clipped  the  wings  of  imagination,  and  repressed  the  extravagance 
of  metaphorical  decoration.  All  is  simple,  plain,  consistent.  The  moral,  too,  that 
part  without  which  poetry  is  useless  sound,  has  not  escaped  the  view  of  the  poet. 
When  we  behold  two  young  men,  who  but  a short  moment  before  stood  up  in  all 
the  pride  of  health,  suddenly  falling  down  a hill,  how  must  we  lament  the  instability 
of  all  things!  Joseph  Dennie,  1801. 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 


OUNG  BEN  he  was  a nice  young  man, 
A carpenter  by  trade ; 

And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 
That  was  a lady’s  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a walk  one  day, 

They  met  a press-gang  crew; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 
Enough  to  shock  a saint, 

That  though  she  did  seem  in  a fit, 

’Twas  nothing  but  a feint. 

« Come,  girl,”  said  he,  “ hold  up  your  head, 
He’ll  be  as  good  as  me  ; 

for  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A boatswain  he  will  be.” 

So  when  they’d  made  their  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 

She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 
A coming  to  herself. 

“ And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ? ” 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

**  Then  I will  to  the  water  side, 

And  see  him  out  of  sight.” 


A waterman  came  up  to  her, 

“ Now,  young  woman,”  said  he, 

“ If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye- water  in  the  sea.” 

“Alas  ! they’ve  taken  my  beau  Ben 
To  sail  with  old  Benbow ; ” 

And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she’d  said  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  “ They’ve  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender  ship,  you  see;  ” 

“ The  Tender  ship,”  cried  Sally  Brownj 
“ What  a hardship  that  must  be ! 

“ Oh  ! would  I were  a mermaid  now, 
For  then  I’d  follow  him  ; 

But  oh  ! — I’m  not  a fish-woman, 

And  so  1 cannot  swim. 

“Alas!  I was  not  born  beneath 
The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 

So  I must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales.” 

Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a place 
That’s  underneath  the  world ; 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home. 
And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING.  3 I 5 


But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

To  see  how  she  went  on, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

He  found  she’d  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  “All’s  Well,” 
But  could  not  though  he  tried  ; 

His  head  was  turned,  and  so  he  chewed 

“O  Sally  Brown,  O Sally  Brown, 

His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I’ve  met  with  many  a breeze  before, 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 

But  never  such  a blow.” 

At  forty-odd  befell : 

They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

Then  reading  on  his  ’bacco  box, 

The  sexton  toll’d  the  bell. 

He  heaved  a bitter  sigh, 

Thomas  Hood, 

THE  ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 


OW  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wish 
To  lend,  thus  lose,  their  books, 

Are  snared  by  anglers — folks  that  fish 
With  literary  hooks — 

Who  call  and  take  some  favorite  tome, 

But  never  read  it  through  ; 

They  thus  complete  their  set  at  home 
By  making  one  at  you. 

I,  of  my  “ Spenser  ” quite  bereft, 

Last  winter  sore  was  shaken  ; 

Of  “ Lamb”  I’ve  but  a quarter  left, 

Nor  could  I save  my  “ Bacon  ; ” 

And  then  I saw  my  “ Crabbe  ” at  last, 

Like  Hamlet,  backward  go, 

And,  as  the  tide  was  ebbing  fast, 

Of  course  I lost  my  “ Rowe.” 

My  “ Mallet  ” served  to  knock  me  down, 
Which  makes  me  thus  a talker, 

And  once,  when  I was  out  of  town, 

My  “ Johnson  ” proved  a “ Walker.” 
While  studying  o’er  the  fire  one  day 
My  “ Hobbes  ” amidst  the  smoke, 

They  bore  my  “ Colman  ” clean  away, 

And  carried  off  my  “ Coke.” 

They  picked  my  “ Locke,”  to  me  far  more 
Than  Bramah’s  patent  worth, 

And  now  my  losses  I deplore, 

Without  a “ Home  ” on  earth. 

If  once  a book  you  let  them  lift, 

Another  they  conceal, 


For  though  I caught  them  stealing  “ Swift,” 

As  swiftly  went  my  “ Steele.” 

“ Hope”  is  not  now  upon  my  shelf. 

Where  late  he  stood  elated, 

But,  what  is  strange,  my  “ Pope  ” himself 
Is  excommunicated. 

My  little  “ Suckling”  in  the  grave 
Is  sunk  to  swell  the  ravage, 

And  what  was  Crusoe’s  fate  to  save, 

’Twas  mine  to  lose — a “ Savage.” 

Even  “ Glover’s  ” works  I cannot  put 
My  frozen  hands  upon, 

Though  ever  since  I lost  my  “ Foote  ” 

My  “ Bunyan  ” has  been  gone. 

My  “ Hoyle  ” with  “ Cotton  ” went  oppressed, 
My  “ Taylor,”  too,  must  fail, 

To  save  my  “ Goldsmith  ” from  arrest, 

In  vain  I offered  “ Bayle.” 

I “ Prior  ” sought,  but  could  not  sqp 
The  “ Hood  ” so  late  in  front, 

And  when  I turned  to  hunt  for  “ Lee,” 

O,  where  was  my  “ Leigh  Hunt  ? ” 

I tried  to  laugh,  old  Care  to  tickle, 

Yet  could  not  “ Tickell  ” touch. 

And  then,  aiack  ! I missed  my  “ Mickle,1' 

And  surely  mickle’s  much. 

’Tis  quite  enough  my  griefs  to  feed, 

My  sorrows  to  excuse, 


316 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 


To  think  I cannot  read  my  “ Reid,” 

Nor  even  use  my  “ Hughes.” 

My  classics  would  not  quiet  lie — 

A thing  so  fondly  hoped  ; 

Like  Dr.  Primrose,  I may  cry, 

My  “ Livy  ” has  eloped. 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast  away ; 

I suffer  from  these  shocks  ; 

And  though  I fixed  a lock  on  “Gray,” 
There’s  gray  upon  my  locks. 

I’m  far  from  “ Young,”  am  growing  pale, 
I see  my  “ Butler  ” fly, 


THE  MERMAID 

“Alas  ! what  perils  do  environ 
That  man  who  meddles  with  a siren  ! ’’ — Hubibras. 

N Margate  beach,  where  the  sick  one  roams, 
And  the  sentimental  reads ; 

Where  the  maiden  flirts,  and  the  widow 
comes 

Like  the  ocean — to  cast  her  weeds ; — 

Where  urchins  wander  to  pick  up  shells, 

And  the  Cit  to  spy  at  the  ships — 

Like  the  water  gala  at  Sadler’s  Wells — 

And  the  Chandler  for  watery  dips ; — 

There’s  a maiden  sits  by  the  ocean  brim. 

As  lovely  and  fair  as  sin  ! 

But  woe,  deep  water  and  woe  to  him, 

That  she  snareth  like  Peter  Fin  ! 

Her  head  is  crowned  with  pretty  sea-wares. 

And  her  locks  are  golden  and  loose, 

And  seek  to  her  feet,  like  other  folks’  heirs, 

To  stand,  of  course,  in  her  shoes ! 

And  all  day  long  she  combeth  them  well, 

With  a sea-shark’s  prickly  jaw; 

And  her  mouth  is  just  like  a rose-lipped  shell, 

The  fairest  that  man  e’er  saw ! 

And  the  Fishmonger,  humble  as  love  may  be, 

Hath  planted  his  seat  by  her  side ; 

Good  even,  fair  maid  ! Is  thy  lover  at  sea, 

To  make  thee  so  watch  the  tide  ? ” 

She  turned  about  with  her  pearly  brows, 

And  clasped  him  by  the  hand ; 

“ Come,  love,  with  me ; I’ve  a bonny  house 
On  the  golden  Goodwin  Sand.” 

And  then  she  gave  him  a siren  kiss, 

No  honeycomb  e’er  was  sweeter ; 

Poor  wretch  ! how  little  he  dreamt  for  this 
That  Peter  should  be  salt-Peter  : 

And  away  with  her  prize  to  the  wave  she  leapt, 

Not  walking,  as  damsels  do, 

With  toe  and  heel,  as  she  ought  to  have  stept, 

But  she  hopt  like  a Kangaroo ; 


And  when  they  ask  about  my  ail, 

’Tis  “ Burton  ” I reply. 

They  still  have  made  me  slight  return*. 

And  thus  my  griefs  divide  ; 

For  O,  they  cured  me  of  my  “ Burns,” 

And  eased  my  “Akenside.” 

But  all  I think  I shall  not  say, 

Nor  let  my  anger  burn, 

For,  as  they  never  found  me  “ Gay,” 

They  have  not  left  me  “ Sterne.” 

Thomas  Hood. 


OF  MARGATE. 

One  plunge,  and  then  the  victim  was  blind,. 
Whilst  they  galloped  across  the  tide ; 

At  last,  on  the  bank  he  waked  in  his  mind,. 

And  the  Beauty  was  by  his  side. 

One-half  on  the  sand,  and  half  in  the  sea, 

But  his  hair  began  to  stiffen ; 

For  when  he  looked  where  her  feet  should  be. 
She  had  no  more  feet  than  Miss  Biffen ! 

But  a scaly  tail,  of  a dolphin’s  growth, 

In  the  dabbling  brine  did  soak  : 

At  last  she  opened  her  pearly  mouth, 

Like  an  oyster,  and  thus  she  spoke : 

“ You  crimpt  my  father,  who  was  a skate — 

And  my  sister  you  sold — a maid ; 

So  here  remain  for  a fish’ry  fate, 

For  lost  you  are,  and  betrayed ! ” 

And  away  she  went  with  a seagull’s  scream. 
And  a splash  of  her  saucy  tail ; 

In  a moment  he  lost  the  silvery  gleam 
That  shone  on  her  splendid  mail ! 

The  sun  went  down  with  a blood-red  flame. 
And  the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  black, 

And  the  tumbling  billows  like  leap-frog  came. 
Each  over  the  other’s  back  ! 

Ah  me  ! it  had  been  a beautiful  scene, 

With  the  safe  terra-firma  round; 

But  the  green  water-hillocks  all  seem’d  to  him 
Like  those  in  a churchyard  ground  ; 

And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie, 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be ; 

Nay,  the  very  fishes  will  sooner  die 
On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 

And  whilst  he  stood,  the  watery  strife 
Encroached  on  every  hand, 

And  the  ground  decreased — his  moments  of  life 
Seemed  measured,  like  Time’s,  by  sand; 

And  still  the  waters  foamed  in,  like  ale, 

In  front,  and  on  either  flank, 


"ON  MARGATE  BEACH  WHERE  THE  SICK  ONE  ROAMS.” 


(3*7) 


318 


JIM. 


He  knew  that  Goodwin  and  Co.  must  fail. 
There  was  such  a run  on  the  bank. 

A little  more,  and  a little  more, 

The  surges  came  tumbling  in, 

He  sang  the  evening  hymn  twice  o’er, 

And  thought  of  every  sin  ! 

Each  flounder  and  plaice  lay  cold  at  his  heart, 
As  cold  as  his  marble  slab; 

And  he  thought  he  felt,  in  every  part, 

The  pincers  of  scalded  crab. 

The  squealing  lobsters  that  he  had  boiled. 

And  the  little  potted  shrimps, 

All  the  horny  prawns  he  had  ever  spoiled, 
Gnawed  into  his  soul,  like  imps ! 

And  the  billows  were  wandering  to  and  fro, 
And  the  glorious  sun  was  sunk, 

And  Day,  getting  black  in  the  face,  as  though 
Of  the  night-shade  she  had  drunk ! 

Had  there  been  but  a smuggler’s  cargo  adrift, 
One  tub,  or  keg,  to  be  seen, 

It  might  have  given  his  spirits  a lift 
Or  an  anker  where  Hope  might  lean ! 

But  there  was  not  a box  or  a beam  afloat, 

To  raft  him  from  that  sad  place ; 

Not  a skiff,  not  a yawl,  or  a mackerel  boat, 
Nor  a smack  upon  Neptune’s  face. 


At  last,  his  lingering  hopes  to  buoy, 

He  saw  a sail  and  a mast, 

And  called  “Ahoy ! ” — but  it  was  not  a boy, 

And  so  the  vessel  went  past. 

And  with  saucy  wing  that  flapped  in  his  face, 
The  wild  bird  about  him  flew, 

With  a shrilly  scream,  that  twitted  his  case, 

“ Why,  thou  art  a sea-gull  too  ! ” 

And  lo ! the  tide  was  over  his  feet ; 

Oh ! his  heart  began  to  freeze, 

And  slowly  to  pulse  : — in  another  beat 
The  wave  was  up  to  his  knees ! 

He  was  deafened  amidst  the  mountain  tops, 

And  the  salt  spray  blinded  his  eyes, 

And  washed  away  the  other  salt  drops 
That  grief  had  caused  to  arise  : — 

But  just  as  his  body  was  all  afloat, 

And  the  surges  above  him  broke, 

He  was  saved  from  the  hungry  deep  by  a boat 
Of  Deal — (but  builded  of  oak.) 

The  skipper  gave  him  a dram,  as  he  lay, 

And  chafed  his  shivering  skin  ; 

And  the  Angel  returned  that  was  flying  away 
With  the  spirit  of  Peter  Fin ! 

Thomas  Hood 


JIM. 

AY  there!  P’r’aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 
Might  know  Jim  Wild? 

Well — no  offence  : 

Thar  ain’t  no  sense 
In  gittin’  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 
Up  on  the  Bar : 

That’s  why  I come 
Down  from  up  thar, 

Lookin’  for  Jim. 

Thank  ye,  sir  ! you 
Ain’t  of  that  crew — 

Blest  if  you  are  ! 

Money  ? — Not  much  : 

That  ain’t  my  kind ; 

I ain’t  no  such. 

Rum  ? — I don’t  mind, 

Seein’  it’s  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 

Did  you  know  him  ? — 

Jess  ’bout  your  size ; 

Same  kind  of  eyes  ? — 

Well,  that  is  strange  : 

Why,  it’s  two  year 
Since  he  come  here. 

Sick,  for  a change. 

Well,  here’s  to  us; 

Eh? 


$ 


The  deuce  you  say ! 

Dead  ? — 

That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star— 

You  over  thar? 

Can’t  a man  drop 
’s  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar’  ? 

It  wouldn’t  take 
Derned  much  to  break 
You  and  your  bar. 

Dead ! 

Poor — little — Jim  ! 

— Why,  there  was  me, 

Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 

Harry  and  Ben — 

No-account  men  : 

Then  to  take  him  ! 

Well,  thar — Good-by- 
No  more,  sir — I — 

Eh? 

What’s  that  you  say  ? 

Why,  dern  it ! — sho  !— 

No?  Yes!  By  Jo! 

Sold! 

Sold  ! Why  you  limb, 

You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim ! 

Bret  Harte. 


MILKING - TIME. 


319 


MILKING-TIME. 

From  li  Scribner' s Monthly." 


TELL  you,  Kate,  that  Lovejoy  cow 
Is  worth  her  weight  in  gold  ; 

She  gives  a good  eight  quarts  o’  milk, 
And  isn’t  yet  five  year  old. 

“ I see  young  White  a-comin’  now ; 

He  wants  her,  I know  that. 

Be  careful,  girl,  you’re  spillin’  it ! 

An’  save  some  for  the  cat. 

“ Good  evenin’,  Richard,  step  right  in;  ” 

“ I guess  I couldn’t,  sir, 

I’ve  just  come  down  ” — “ I know  it,  Dick, 
You’ve  took  a shine  to  her. 

“ She’s  kind  an’  gentle  as  a lamb, 

Jest  where  I go  she  follows; 

And  though  it’s  cheap  I’ll  let  her  go  ; 

She’s  your’n  for  thirty  dollars. 

“ You’ll  know  her  clear  across  the  farm, 

By  them  two  milk-white  stars  ; 


You  needn’t  drive  her  home  at  night, 

But  jest  le’  down  the  bars. 

“ Then,  when  you’ve  own’d  her,  say  a month. 
And  learnt  her,  as  it  were, 

I’ll  bet — why,  what’s  the  matter,  Dick  ? ” 

“ ’Taint  her  I want — it’s — her  !" 

“ What  ? not  the  girl ! well,  I’ll  be  bless’d  ! — 
There,  Kate,  don’t  drop  that  pan. 

You’ve  took  me  mightily  aback, 

But  then  a man’s  a man. 

“ She’s  your’n,  my  boy,  but  one  word  more ; 
Kate’s  gentle  as  a dove  ; 

She’ll  foller  you  the  whole  world  round, 

For  nothin’  else  but  love. 

“ But  never  try  to  drive  the  lass , 

Her  natur’s  like  her  ma’s. 

I've  alius  found  it  worked  the  best, 

To  jest  le’  down  the  bars.” 

Philip  Morse. 


320 


THE  SPELLING  BEE  AT  ANGEL'S. 


THE  SPELLING  BEE  AT  ANGEL’S. 

REPORTED  BY  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.  * 
From  “ Scribner's  Monthly." 


TZ  in,  waltz  in,  ye  little  kids,  and  gather 
round  my  knee, 

id  drop  them  books  and  first  pot-hooks, 
and  hear  a yarn  from  me. 

I kin  not  sling  a fairy  tale  of  Jinny’s*  fierce 
and  wild, 

For  I hold  it  is  unchristian  to  deceive  a simple  child ; 

But  as  from  school  yer  driftin’  by  I thowt  ye’d  like  to 
hear 

Of  a “ Spellin’  Bee  ” at  Angel’s  that  we  organized 
last  year. 

It  warn’t  made  up  of  gentle  kids — of  pretty  kids — 
like  you, 

But  gents  ez  hed  their  reg’lar  growth,  and  some 
enough  for  two. 

There  woz  Lanky  Jim  of  Sutter’s  Fork  and  Bilson  of 
Lagrange, 

And  “ Pistol  Bob,”  who  wore  that  day  a knife  by  way 
of  change. 

You  start,  you  little  kids,  you  think  these  are  not 
pretty  names, 

But  each  had  a man  behind  it,  and — my  name  is 
Truthful  James. 

Thar  was  Poker  Dick  from  Whisky  Flat  and  Smith 
of  Shooter’s  Bend, 

And  Brown  of  Calaveras — which  I want  no  better 
friend. 

Three-fingered  Jack — yes,  pretty  dears — three  fingers 
— -you  have  five. 

Clapp  cut  off  two — it’s  sing’lar  too,  that  Clapp  aint 
now  alive. 

’Twas  very  wrong,  indeed,  my  dears,  and  Clapp  was 
much  to  blame ; 

Likewise  was  Jack,  in  after  years,  for  shootin’  of  that 
same. 

The  nights  was  kinder  lengthenin’  out,  th,e  rains  had 
jest  begun, 

When  all  the  camp  came  up  to  Pete’s  to  have  their 
usual  fun  ; 

But  we  all  sot  kinder  sad-like  around  the  bar  room 
stove 

Till  Smith  got  up,  permiskiss-like,  and  this  remark  he 
hove : 

“ Thar’s  a new  game  down  in  Frisco,  that  ez  far  ez  I 
kin  see, 

Beats  euchre,  poker  and  van-toon,  they  calls  the 
‘ Spellin’  Bee.’  ” 

Then  Brown  of  Calaveras  simply  hitched  his  chair 

, and  spake : 

“ Poker  is  good  enough  for  me,”  and  Lanky  Jim  sez, 
“ Shake ! ” 

And  Bob  allowed  he  warn’t  proud,  but  he  “ must  say 
right  thar 

That  the  man  who  tackled  euchre  hed  his  eddication 
squar.” 


This  brought  up  Lenny  Fairchild,  the  school-master, 
who  said, 

He  knew  the  game  and  he  would  give  instructions  on 
that  head. 

“ For  instance,  take  some  simple  word,”  sez  he,  “ like 
‘ separate,’ 

Now  who  can  spell  it  ? ” Dog  my  skin,  ef  thar  was  one 
in  eight. 

This  set  the  boys  all  wild  at  once.  The  chairs  was 
put  in  row, 

And  at  the  head  was  Lanky  Jim,  and  at  the  foot  was 
Joe, 

And  high  upon  the  bar  itself  the  school-master  was 
raised, 

And  the  bar-keep  put  his  glasses  down,  and  sat  and 
silent  gazed. 

The  first  word  out  was  “ parallel,”  and  seven  let  it  be, 

Till  Joe  waltzed  in  his  double  “ 1 ” betwixt  the  “ a ” 
and  “ e ; ” 

For,  since  he  drilled  them  Mexicans  in  San  Jacinto’s 
fight, 

Thar  warn’t  no  prouder  man  got  up  than  Pistol  Joe 
that  night — 

Till  “ rhythm  ” came  ! He  tried  to  smile,  then  said, 
“they  had  him  there,” 

And  Lanky  Jim,  with  one  long  stride,  got  up  and  took 
his  chair. 

O little  kids  ! my  pretty  kids,  ’twas  touchin’  to  survey 

These  bearded  men,  with  weppings  on,  like  school- 
boys at  their  play. 

They’d  laugh  with  glee,  and  shout  to  see  each  other 
lead  the  van, 

And  Bob  sat  up  as  monitor  with  a cue  for  a rattan, 

Till  the  chair  gave  out  “incinerate,”  and  Brown  said 
he’d  be  durned 

If  any  such  blamed  word  as  that  in  school  was  ever 
learned. 

When  “ phthisis  ” came  they  all  sprang  up,  and  vowed 
the  man  who  rung 

Another  blamed  Greek  word  on  them  be  taken  out 
and  hung. 

As  they  sat  down  again  I saw  in  Bilson’s  eye  a flash, 

And  Brown  of  Calaveras  was  a-twistin’  his  mustache, 

And  when  at  last  Brown  slipped  on  “ gneiss  ” and  Bil- 
son took  his  chair, 

He  dropped  some  casual  words  about  some  folks  who 
dyed  their  hair. 

And  then  the  Chair  grew  very  white,  and  the  Chair 
said  he’d  adjourn, 

But  Poker  Dick  remarked  that  he  would  wait  and  get 
his  turn ; 

Then  with  a tremblin’  voice  and  hand,  and  with  a 
wanderin’  eye, 


* Qy-  Genii. 


BANTY  TIM. 


321 


The  Chair  next  offered  “ eider-duck,”  and  Dick  began 
with  “ I,” 

And  Bilson  smiled — then  Bilson  shrieked ! Just  how 
the  fight  begun 

I never  knowed,  for  Bilson  dropped  and  Dick  he 
moved  up  one. 

Then  certain  gents  arose  and  said  “ they’d  business 
down  in  camp,” 

And  “ ez  the  road  was  rather  dark,  and  ez  the  night 
was  damp, 

They’d  ” — here  got  up  Three-fingered  Jack  and  locked 
the  door  and  yelled  : 

“ No,  not  one  mother’s  son  goes  out  till  that  thar  word 
is  spelled ! ” 

But  while  the  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  groaned  and 
sank  in  pain, 

And  sank  with  Webster  on  his  chest  and  Worcester 
on  his  brain. 

Below  the  bar  dodged  Poker  Dick,  and  tried  to  look 
ez  he 

Wras  huntin’  up  authorities  thet  no  one  else  could  see ; 

And  Brown  got  down  behind  the  stove  allowin’  he 
“was  cold,” 

Till  it  upsot  and  down  his  legs  the  cinders  freely  rolled, 

And  several  gents  called  “ Order ! ” till  in  his  simple 
way 


Poor  Smith  began  with  “ O ” “ R ” — “ or  ” — and  he 
was  dragged  away. 

O,  little  kids,  my  pretty  kids,  down  on  your  knees 
and  pray  ! 

You’ve  got  your  eddication  in  a peaceful  sort  of  way; 

And  bear  in  mind  thar  may  be  sharps  ez  slings  their 
spellin’  square, 

But  likewise  slings  their  bowie-knives  without  a 
thought  or  care — 

You  wants  to  know  the  rest,  my  dears?  Thet’s  all ! 
In  me  you  see 

The  only  gent  that  lived  to  tell  about  thet  Spellin’ 
Bee ! 

He  ceased  and  passed,  that  truthful  man ; the  children 
went  their  way 

With  downcast  heads  and  downcast  hearts — but  not  to 
sport  or  play. 

For  when  at  eve  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  supperless  to 
bed 

Each  child  was  sent,  with  tasks  undone  and  lessons  all 
unsaid, 

No  man  might  know  the  awful  woe  that  thrilled  their 
youthful  frames, 

As  they  dreamed  of  Angel’s  Spelling  Bee  and  thought 
of  Truthful  James. 

Bret  Harte. 


BANTY  TIM. 

[Remarks  of  Sergeant  Tilmon  Joy  to  the  White  Man’s  Committee  of  Spunky  Point,  Illinois.] 


RECKON  I git  your  drift,  gents — 

You  ’low  the  boy  sha’n’t  stay; 

This  is  a white  man’s  country  : 

You’re  Dimocrats,  you  say  : 

And  whereas,  and  seein’,  and  wherefore, 
The  times  bein’  all  out  o’  jint, 

The  nigger  has  got  to  mosey 

From  the  limits  o’  Spunky  P’int ! 

Let’s  reason  the  thing  a minute ; 

I’m  an  old-fashioned  Dimocrat,  too, 

Though  I laid  my  politics  out  o’  the  way 
For  to  keep  till  the  war  was  through. 

But  I come  back  here  allowin’ 

To  vote  as  I used  to  do, 

Though  it  gravels  me  like  the  devil  to  train 
Along  o’  sich  fools  as  you. 

Now  dog  my  cats  ef  I kin  see, 

In  all  the  light  of  the  day, 

What  you’ve  got  to  do  with  the  question 
Ef  Tim  shall  go  or  stay. 

And  furder  than  that  I give  notice, 

Ef  one  of  you  tetches  the  boy, 

He  kin  check  his  trunks  to  a warmer  clime 
Than  he’ll  find  in  Illanoy. 

Why,  blame  your  hearts,  jist  hear  me  ! 

You  know  that  ungodly  day 
When  our  left  struck  Vicksburg  Heights,  how  ripped 
And  torn  and  tattered  we  lay. 

21 


When  the  rest  retreated,  I stayed  behind, 

For  reasons  sufficient  to  me — 

With  a rib  caved  in,  and  a leg  on  a strike, 

I sprawled  on  that  cursed  glacee. 

Lord  ! how  the  hot  sun  went  for  us, 

And  br’iled  and  blistered  and  burned ! 

How  the  rebel  bullets  whizzed  round  us 
When  a cuss  in  his  death-grip  turned ! 

Till  along  toward  dusk  I seen  a thing 
I couldn’t  believe  for  a spell : 

That  nigger — that  Tim — was  a-crawlin’  to  me 
Through  that  fire-proof,  gilt-edged  hell ! 

The  rebels  seen  him  as  quick  as  me, 

And  the  bullets  buzzed  like  bees ; 

But  he  jumped  for  me,  and  shouldered  me, 

Though  a shot  brought  him  once  to  his  knees; 
But  he  staggered  up,  and  packed  me  off, 

With  a dozen  stumbles  and  falls, 

Till  safe  in  our  lines  he  drapped  us  both, 

His  black  hide  riddled  with  balls. 

So,  my  gentle  gazelles,  thar’s  my  answer, 

And  here  stays  Banty  Tim  : 

He  trumped  Death’s  ace  for  me  that  day, 

And  I’m  not  goin’  back  on  him ! 

You  may  rezoloot  till  the  cows  come  home, 

But  ef  one  of  you  tetches  the  boy, 

He’ll  wrastle  his  hash  to-night  in  hell, 

Or  mv  name’s  not  Tilmon  Joy ! 

John  Hay. 


322 


NOT  ENNY  SHANGHI  FOR  ME. 


NOT  ENNY  SHANGHI  FOR  ME. 

HE  shanghi  ruseter  is  a gentile,  and  speaks  in  a forrin  tung.  He  is  built 
on  piles  like  a Sandy  Hill  crane.  If  he  had  bin  bilt  with  4 legs,  he  wud 
resembel  the  peruvian  lama.  He  is  not  a game  animil,  but  quite  often 
cums  off  seckund  best  in  a ruff  and  tumble  fite ; like  the  injuns,  tha 
kant  stand  civilization,  and  are  fast  disappearing. 

Tha  roost  on  the  ground,  similar  tew — the  mud  turkle.  Tha  oftin  go  to  sleep 

standing,  and  sum- 
times  pitch,  over  and 
when  tha  dew,  tha 
enter  the  ground  like 
a pickaxe. 

Thare  food  consis- 
ov  korn  in  the  ear. 

Tha  crow  like  a 
jackass,  troubled: 
with  the  bronskee- 
ters.  Tha  will  eat 
as  mutch  tu  onst  as 
a district  skule  mas- 
ter, and  ginerally  sit 
down  rite  oph  tew 
keep  from  tipping 
over. 

Tha  are  dreadful 
unhandy  tew  cook,, 
yu  hav  tu  bile  one 
eend  ov  them  tu  a 
time,  yu  kant  git 
them  awl  into  a pot- 
ash kittle  tu  onst. 

The  femail  ruster 
lays  an  eg  as  big  as 
a kokernut,  and  is 
sick  for  a week  af- 
terwards, and  when 
she  hatches  out  a lit- 
ter of  yung  shanghis 

she  has  tew  brood  them  standing,  and  then  kant  kiver  but  3 ov  them — the  rest  stand 
around  on  the  outside,  like  boys  around  a cirkus  tent,  gitting  a peep  under  the 
kanvas  when  ever  tha  kan. 


NOT  ENNY  SHANG1II  FOR  ME. 


323 

The  man  who  fust  brought  the  breed  into  this  kuntry  ought  to  own  them  all  and 
be  obliged  tew  feed  them  on  grasshoppers,  caught  bi  hand. 

I never  owned  but  one,  and  he  got  choked  tu  deth  bi  a kink  in  a clothes  line, 
but  not  until  he  had  swallered  18  feet  ov  it. 

Not  enny  shanghi  for  me,  if  you  pleze ; i wuld  rather  board  a travelling  kolpor- 
ter,  and  as  for  eating  one,  give  me  a biled  owl  rare  dun,  or  a turkee  buzzard,  roasted 
hole,  and  stuffed  with  a pair  ov  injun  rubber  boots,  but  not  enny  shanghi  for  me,, 
not  a shanghi ! Speaking  ov  hens,  leads  me  tew  remark,  in  the  fust  place,  that  hens, 
thus  far,  are  a suckcess.  They  are  domestick,  and  occasionally  are  tuff.  This  iz 
owing  tew  their  not  being  biled  often  enuff  in  their  younger  daze ; but  the  hen  aint 
tew  blame  for  this.  Biled  hen  iz  universally  respekted. 

Thare  is  a great  deal  ov  originality  tew  the  hen — exactly  how  mutch  i kant  tell, 
historians  fight  so  mutch  about  it.  Sum  say  Knower  had  hens  in  the  ark  and  some 
say  he  didn’t.  So  it  goes,  which  and  tuther.  I kant  tell  yu  which  was  born  fust, 
the  hen  or  the  egg;  sumtimes  I think  the  egg  waz — and  sumtimes  i think  the  hen 
waz — and  sumtimes  i think  i don’t  kno  and  i kant  tell  now,  which  way  iz  right,  for 
the  life  ov  me.  Laying  eggs  iz  the  hen’s  best  grip.  A hen  that  kant  lay  eggs  iz 
laid  out.  One  eg  iz  konsidered  a fair  day’s  work  for  a hen.  I hav  herd  ov  their 
doing  better,  but  i don’t  want  a hen  ov  mine  tew  do  it — it  iz  apt  tew  hurt  their  con- 
stitution and  bye-laws,  and  thus  impare  their  futer  worth.  The  poet  sez,  butifully, 

“ Sumboddy  haz  stolen  our  old  blew  hen! 

I wish  they’d  let  her  bee  ; 

She  used  tew  lay  2 eggs  a day, 

And  Sunday  she’d  lay  3.” 

This  sounds  trew  enuff  for  poetry,  but  i will  bet  75  thousand  dollars  that  it  never 
took  place.  The  best  time  tew  sett  a hen  iz  when  the  hen  iz  reddy.  I kant  tell 
you  what  the  best  breed  iz,  but  the  shanghi  is  the  meanest. 

It  kosts  as  mutch  tew  board  one  as  it  duz  a stage  hoss,  and  yu  might  as  well 
undertake  tew  fat  a fanning  mill,  by  running  oats  thru  it.  Thare  aint  no  proffit  in 
keeping  a hen  for  his  eggs,  if  he  laze  less  than  one  a day. 

Hens  are  very  long  lived,  if  they  dont  contrakt  the  thrut  disseaze — thare  is  a great 
menny  goes  tew  pot,  every  year,  bi  this  melankolly  disseaze.  I kant  tell  exactly 
how  tew  pick  out  a good  hen,  but  as  a general  thing,  the  long  eared  ones  are 
kounted  the  best. 

The  one  legged  ones,  i kno,  are  the  lest  apt  tew  skratch  up  a garden. 

Eggs  packed  in  equal  parts  ov  salt,  and  lime  water,  with  the  other  end  down,  will’ 
keep  from  30,  or  40,  years,  if  they  are  not  disturbed. 

Fresh  beef-stake  iz  good  for  hens;  i serpose  4 or  5 pounds  a day  would  be  awl 
a hen  would  need,  at  fust  along. 

I shall  be  happy  to  advise  with  yu,  at  enny  time,  on  the  hen  question,  and  take  it 
in  egg.  Josh  Billings. 


324 


UNCLE  MELLICK  DINES  WITH  HIS  MASTER. 


UNCLE  MELLICK  DINES  WITH  HIS  MASTER. 


|L’  marster  is  a cur’ us  man,  as  sho’  as  yo’  is 
born ! 

I’s  wukkin  in  de  crib  one  day  a-shellin  o’ 

some  corn, 

An’  he  was  standin’  at  de  do’ ; — I “ knowed  it  ? ” no, 
sah,  not! 

Or,  fo’  de  king ! dese  jaws  uv  mine,  I’d  sh’ly  kept 
’em  shot. 

But  to  Bru.  Simon,  shellin’  too,  what  should  I do  but 


say  : 

“ I’s  starvin’  sence  I lars  has  eat — a week  ago  to- 
day.” 

Den  marster  cussed  and  hollered : “ Here’s  a shame 
an’  a dusgrace ! 

I,  so  long  a planter — a starved  nigger  on  my  place! 

Come,  Mellick,  drap  dat  corn  an’  walk  straight  to  de 
house  wid  me ; 

A starvin’  nigger  on  my  place’s  a thing  shall  nebber 
be.” 


*'  Hi ! me  eat  ’long  de  white  folks,  sah  ? ” “ Yes, 

Mellick,  take  a seat.” 

Den  to  missis : “ Dis  starved  nigger  I’se  done  fotch 
to  make  ’im  eat  ” — 

An’  he  drawed  a big  revolvah  an’  he  drapped  it  by  he 
plate — 

Gub  ’im  soup ! an’  ’twix  de  swallers,  don’  lemme 
see  yo’  wait.” 

Dat  soup  was  fine,  I tell  yo’,  an’  I hide  it  mighty 
soon — 

One  eye  sot  on  de  pistol  an’  de  turrer  on  de  spoon. 

“ Fish  for  Mellick,  in  a hurry,  he’s  a starvin’  don’t 
yo’  see  ? ” 

■ (Dem  mizable  house-niggers  tucked  dar  heads  an’ 
larfed  at  me.) 

An’  I went  for  dat  red-snapper  like  de  big  fish  for  de 
small— . 

Glarnced  at  de  navy-shooter  onct,  den  swallered  bones 
an’  all. 


“ Gub  ’im  tucky,  ham  an’  aigs,  rice,  taters,  spinach, 
sparrergrars, 

Bread,  hom’ny,  mutton,  chicken,  beef,  corn,  turnips, 
apple-sars, 


Peas,  cabbage,  aig-plant,  artichoke” — Dat  pistol  still 
in  view, 

An’  de  white  folks  dey  all  larfin’  an’  dem  silly  niggers, 
too) — 

“ Termaters,  carrots,  pahsnips,  beets” — (“When  is 
he  gwine  git  done?”) — 

“ Squash,  punkin,  beans  an’  kercumbers — eat,  Mel- 
lick, don’t  leabe  none  ; 

For  dis  here  day’s  done  brung  to  me  a shame  an’  a 
dusgrace — 

I,  so  long  a planter — a starved  nigger  on  my  place ! ” 

Dem  things  ef  I’d  be’n  by  myself,  I’d  soon  put  out 
o’  sight; 

But  de  com’cal  sitiwation  dar,  it  spile  my  appetite: 

I had  to  wrastle  wid  dem  wittles  hard  enough  dat  day ! 

Till  “ Now  champagne  for  Mellick ! ” I heard  ole 
marster  say. 

When  dat  nigger  shoot  de  bottle  by  my  hade — I’se 
sho’ly  skeered; 

Dat  stuff  it  look  so  b’ilin’  hot,  to  drink  it  I wuz 
feared ; 

But  arter  I’d  done  swallered  down  a glars,  I feel  so 
fine, 

I ’gin  de  sitiwation  not  so  very  much  to  min’ — 

An’  den  a little  restin’  spell  I sorter  tried  to  take, 

But,  Lor’ ! ole  marster  hollered  : “ Gub  ’im  puddin’, 
pie  an’  cake ! ” 

— Wid  de  han’  upon  de  pistol  an’  de  debbel  in  de 
eye  ! — 

“An’,  Mellick,  down  wid  all,  onless  yo’  is  prepar’d  to 
die.” 

I hurried  home  dem  goodies  like  I hudn’t  eat  dat 
day ; 

Tell  marster  see  I couldn’t  pack  anoder  crumb  away; 

An’  den  he  say  : “ Now,  Mellick,  to  de  crib,  git  up 
an’  go ! 

An’  de  naix  time  yo’  is  starvin’  come  to  me  an’  lemme 
know.” 

But,  Lor’,  in  dat  ar  bizniss  I kin  nebber  show  my 
face — 

An’  dar’s  nebber  been  anoder  starvin’  nigger  on  dta 
place!  J.  R.  Eggleston,  in  “Century.'* 


DOW’S  FLAT ; 1856. 


325 


DOW’S  FLAT,  1856. 


lOW’S  FLAT.  That’s  its  name, 
And  I reckon  that  you 
Are  a stranger  ? The  same  ? 
Well,  I thought  it  was  true, 

For  thar  isn’t  a man  on  the  river  as  can’t  spot 
the  place  at  first  view. 


It  was  called  after  Dow — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass — 

And  as  to  the  how 

That  the  thing  came  to  pass — 

Just  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit 
ye  down  here  in  the  grass : 


You  see  this  here  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 

He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 

Why,  ef  he’d  ha’  straddled  thet  fence-rail,  the 
derned  thing  ’ed  get  up  and  buck. 


He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  couldn’t  pay  rates ; 

He  was  smashed  by  a car 

When  he  tunneled  with  Bates  ; 

And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his 
wife  and  five  kids  from  the  States. 


His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 

And  a gownd  that  was  Sal’s 
Kinder  flapped  on  a bay ; 

Not  much  for  a man  to  be  leavin’,  but  his  all,  as  I’ve 
heerd  the  folks  say. 

And  that’s  a pert  hoss 

Thet  you’ve  got,  ain’t  it  now  ? 

What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ? Oh  !— ' Well,  then,  Dow— 

Let’s  see — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn’t  his,  sir, 
that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a blow  of  his  pick 
Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 

And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 

Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 

For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  hed  struck — “ Water?  ” — beg 
your  parding,  young  man,  there  you  lied. 

It  was  gold  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike  ; 

And  I reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike; 

And  that  house  with  the  coopilow’s  his’n — which  th€ 
same  isn’t  bad  for  a Pike. 

Thet’s  why  it’s  Dow’s  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 


It  was  rough — mighty  rough ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 

And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 
For  a house  on  the  sly ; 

And  the  old  woman — well,  she  did  washing,  and  took 
on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 


But  this  yer  luck  o’  Dow’s 
Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 

And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a drop 
to  be  seen. 


Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  wouldn’t  stay : 

And  the  chills  got  about, 

And  his  wife  fell  away ; 

But  Dow,  in  his  well,  kept  a peggin’  in  his  usual  ridik- 
ilous  way. 


One  day — it  was  June, 

And  a year  ago,  jest — 

This  Dow  kem  at  noon 
To  his  work,  like  the  rest, 

With  a shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a Der- 
ringer hid  in  his  breast. 


He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 

And  stops  for  a spell, 

Just  to  listen  and  think  ; 

For  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  ( jest  like  this,  sir,)  you  see, 
kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 


326 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 


That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrariness; 

For  ’twas  water  the  denied  cuss  was  seekin’,  and  his 
luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 


No? 


Thet’s  so.  Thar’s  your  way 
To  the  left  of  yon  tree ; 


But — a — look  h’yur,  say  ! 

‘ Won’t  you  come  up  to  tea? 

Well  then,  the  next  time  you’re  passin’  and  ask 
after  Dow — and  thet’s  me. 

F.  Bret  Harte. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 


A PATHETIC  BALLAD. 


EN  BATTLE  was  a soldier  bold. 
And  used  to  war’s  alarms  : 

But  a cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs. 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms ! 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

Said  he,  “ Let  others  shoot, 

For  here  I leave  my  second  leg, 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot!  ” 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs : 

Said  he — “ They’re  only  pegs : 

But  there’s  as  wooden  members  quite 
As  represent  my  legs ! ” 

Now  Ben  lie  loved  a pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ! 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours 
When  he’d  devoured  his  pay  ! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a scoff ; 

.And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  them  off ! 

O Nelly  Gray  ! O Nelly  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 

The  love  that  loves  a scarlet  coat, 

Should  be  more  uniform  ! ” 

Said  she,  “ I loved  a soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 

But  I will  never  have  a man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave  ! 

<ti  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I did  allow, 

But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now  ! ” 

**  O Nelly  Gray  ! O Nelly  Gray ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 


At  duty’s  call  I left  my  legs 
In  Badajos’s  breaches  ! ” 

“ Why,  then,”  said  she,  “ you’ve  lost  the  feet 
Of  legs  in  war’s  alarms, 

And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms  ! ” 

“ O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray; 

I know  why  you  refuse  : — 

Though  I’ve  no  feet — some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

“ I wish  I ne’er  had  seen  your  face; 

But,  now,  a long  farewell ! 

For  you  will  be  my  death  : — alas  ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell /” 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got — 

And  life  was  such  a burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take,  a knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 
A rope  he  did  entwine, 

And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off — of  course. 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs! 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 
As  any  nail  in  town — 

For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a stake  in  his  inside  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


SNEEZING. 


HAT  a moment,  what  a doubt! 

All  my  nose  is  inside  out — 

All  my  thrilling,  tickling  caustic, 
Pyramid  rhinocerostic, 

Wants  to  sneeze  and  cannot  do  it ! 
How  it  yearns  me,  thrills  me,  stings  me, 


How  with  rapturous  torment  wrings  me ! 

Now  says,  “ Sneeze,  you  fool — get  through  it.” 
Shee — shee — oh  ! ’t  is  most  del-ishi — 

Ishi — ishi — most  del-ishi ! 


Leigh  Hunt. 


THE  SHAKERS. 


32  7 


THE  SHAKERS. 

HE  Shakers  is  the  strangest  religious  sex  I ever  met.  I’d  hearn  tell  of 
’em  and  I’d  seen  ’em,  with  their  broad  brim’d  hats  and  long  wastid  coats; 
but  I’d  never  cum  into  immejit  contack  with  ’em,  and  I’d  sot  ’em  down 
as  lackin  intelleck,  as  I’d  never  seen  ’em  to  my  Show — leastways,  if  they 
cum  they  was  disgised  in  white  people’s  close,  so  I didn’t  know  ’em. 

But  in  the  Spring  of  18 — , I got  swampt  in  the  exterior  of  New  York  State,  one 
dark  and  stormy  night,  when  the  winds  Blue  pityusly  and  I was  forced  to  tie  up 
with  the  Shakers. 

I was  toilin  threw  the  mud,  when  in  the  dim  vister  of  the  futer  I obsarved  the 
gleams  of  a taller  candle.  Tiein  a hornet’s  nest  to  my  off  hoss’s  tail  to  kinder  en- 
courage him,  I soon  reached  the  place.  I knocht  at  the  door,  which  it  was  opened 
unto  me  by  a tall,  slick-faced,  solum  individooal,  who  turn’d  out  to  be  a Elder. 

“ Mr.  Shaker,”  sed  I,  “ you  see  before  you  a Babe  in  the  woods,  so  to  speak,  and 
he  axes  shelter  of  you.”  “ Yay,”  sed  the  Shaker,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the 
house,  another  Shaker  bein  sent  to  put  my  hosses  and  waggin  under  kiver. 

A solum  female,  looking  sumwhat  like  a last  year’s  beanpole  stuck  into  a long 
meal  bag,  cum  in  and  axed  me  was  I athurst  and  did  I hunger  ? to  which  i urbanely 
ansered  “ a few.”  She  went  orf  and  I endevord  to  open  a conversashun  with  the 
old  man. 

“ Elder,  I spect  ?”  sed  I. 

“ Yay,”  he  said. 

“ Helth’s  good,  I reckon  ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ What’s  the  wages  of  a Elder,  when  he  understans  his  bizness — or  do  you  de- 
vote your  sarvices  gratooitus  ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ Stormy  night,  sir.” 

4‘  Yay.” 

4‘  If  the  storm  continners  there’ll  be  a mess  underfoot?  ” 

41  Yay.” 

“ It’s  onpleasant  when  there’s  a mess  underfoot  ? ” 

4‘  Yay.” 

“ If  I may  be  so  bold,  kind  sir,  what’s  the  price  of  that  pecooler  kind  of  weskit 
you  wear,  incloodin  trimmins  ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

I pawsd  a minit,  and  then,  thinkin  I’d  be  faseshus  with  him  and  see  how  that 
would  go,  I slapt  him  on  the  shoulder,  bust  into  a harty  larf,  and  told  him  as  a yayer 
he  had  no  livin  ekal. 

He  jumpt  up  as  if  Bilin  water  had  bin  squirted  into  his  ears,  groaned,  rolled  his 
eyes  up  tords  the  sealin  and  sed  : “ You’re  a man  of  sin  ! ” He  then  walkt  out  of 
the  room. 


328 


THE  SHAKERS. 


Just  then  the  female  in  the  meal-bag  stuck  her  head  into  the  room  and  statid  that 
refreshments  awaited  the  weary  traveller,  and  I sed  if  it  was  vittles  she  ment  the 
weary  traveller  was  agreeable,  and  I follered  her  into  the  next  room. 

I sot  down  to  the  table  and  the  female  in  the  meal-bag  pored  out  some  tea.  She 
sed  nothin,  and  for  five  minutes  the  only  live  thing  in  that  room  was  a old  wooden 
clock,  which  tickt  in  a subdood  and  bashful  manner  in  the  corner. 

This  dethly  stillness  made  me  oneasy,  and  I determined  to  talk  to  the  female  or 
bust  So  sez  I,  “ Marriage  is  agin  your  rules,  I bleeve,  marm  ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ The  sexes  liv  strictly  apart,  I spect  ? ” 

“ Yay.” 

“ It’s  kinder  singler,”  sez  I,  puttin  on  my  most  sweetest  look  and  speakin  in  a 
winnin  voice,  “ that  so  fair  a made  as  thow  never  got  hitched  to  some  likely  feller.” 
(N.  B. — She  was  upwards  of  40  and  homely  as  a stump  fence,  but  I thawt  I’d  tickil 
her.) 

“ I don’t  like  men ! ” she  sed,  very  short. 

“ Wall,  I dunno,”  sez  I,  “ they’re  a rayther  important  part  of  the  populashun.  I 
don’t  scarcely  see  how  we  could  git  along  without  ’em.” 

“ Us  poor  wimin  folks  would  git  along  a grate  deal  better  if  there  was  no  men ! ” 

“ You’ll  excoos  me,  marm,  but  I don’t  think  that  air  would  work.  It  wouldn’t  be 
regler.” 

“ I’m  afraid  of  men  ! ” she  said. 

“That’s  onnecessary,  marm.  You  ain’t  in  no  danger.  Don’t  fret  yourself  on 
that  pint.” 

“ Here  we’re  shut  out  from  the  sinful  world.  Here  is  all  peas.  Here  we  air 
brothers  and  sisters.  We  don’t  marry  and  consekently  we  hav  no  domestic  duffi- 
culties.  Husbans  don’t  abooze  their  wives— wives  don’t  worrit  their  husbans. 
There’s  no  children  here  to  worrit  us.  Nothin  to  worrit  us  here.  No  wicked 
matrimony  here. 

“ Would  thow  like  to  be  a Shaker  ? ” 

“ No,”  sez  I,  “ it  ain’t  my  style.” 

I had  now  histed  in  as  big  a load  of  pervishuns  as  I could  carry  comfortable,  and, 
leanin  in  my  cheer,  commenst  pickin  my  teeth  with  a fork.  The  female  went  out, 
leavin  me  all  alone  with  the  clock.  I hadn’t  sot  thar  long  before  the  Elder  poked 
his  hed  in  at  the  door.  “You’re  a man  of  sin  !”  he  sed,  and  groaned  and  went 
away. 

Direckly  thar  cum  in  two  young  Shakeresses,  as  putty  and  slick  gals  as  I ever  met. 
It  is  troo  they  was  drest  in  meal-bags  like  the  old  one  I’d  met  previously,  and  their 
shiny,  silky  har  was  hid  from  sight  by  long  white  caps,  sich  as  I spose  female  gosts 
wear;  but  their  eyes  sparkled  like  diminds,  their  cheeks  was  like  roses,  and  they 
was  charmin  enuff  to  make  a man  throw  stuns  at  his  granmother  if  they  axed  him  to. 

They  commenst  clearin  away  the  dishes,  castin  shy  glances  at  me  all  the  time.  I 


THE  SHAKERS. 


329 


got  excited.  I forgot  Betsy  Jane  in  my  rapter,  and  sez  I,  “ My  pretty  dears,  how 
air  you  ? ” 

“ We  air  well,”  they  solumly  sed. 

“ Whar’s  the  old  man  ? ” sed  I,  in  a soft  voice. 

“ Of  whom  dost  thow  speak — Brother  Uriah  ? ” 

“ I mean  the  gay  and  festiv  cuss  who  calls  me  a man  of  sin.  Shouldn’t  wonder 
if  his  name  was  Uriah.” 

“ He  has  retired.” 

“ Wall,  my  pretty  dears,”  sez  I,  “let’s  have  some  fun.  Let’s  play  puss  in  the 
corner.  What  say  ? ” 

“Air  you  a Shaker,  sir  ? ” they  asked. 

“ Wall,  my  pretty  dears,  I haven’t  arrayed  my  proud  form  in  a long  weskit  yet,, 
but  if  they  was  all  like  you  perhaps  I’d  jine  ’em.  As  it  is,  I’m  a Shaker  pro-tem- 
porary.” 

They  was  full  of  fun,  I seed  that  at  fust,  only  they  was  a little  skeery.  I tawt 
’em  puss  in  the  corner  and  sich  like  plase,  and  we  had  a nice  time,  keeping  quiet 
of  course  so  the  old  man  shouldn’t  hear. 

When  we  broke  up,  sez  I,  “ My  pretty  dears,  ear  I go  you  hav  no  objections,  hav 
you,  to  a innersent  kiss  at  partin  ? ” 

“ Yay,”  they  sed,  and  I yay’d. 

I went  up  stairs  to  bed.  I spose  I’d  bin  snoozing  half  an  hour  when  I was  woke 
up  by  a noise  at  the  door.  I sot  up  in  bed,  leanin  on  my  elbers  and  rubbin  my 
eyes,  and  I saw  the  follerin  picter.  The  Elder  stood  in  the  doorway,  with  a taller 
candle  in  his  hand.  He  hadn’t  no  wearin  appeeral  on  except  his  night  close,  which 
fluttered  in  the  breeze  like  a Seseshun  flag.  He  sed,  “ You’re  a man  of  sin  ! ” then 
groaned  and  went  away. 

I went  to  sleep  agin,  and  drempt  of  runnin  orf  with  the  pretty  little  Shakeresses- 
mounted  on  my  Californy  Bar.  I thawt  the  Bar  insisted  on  steerin  strate  for  my 
dooryard  in  Baldinsville  and  that  Betsy  Jane  cum  out  and  give  us  a warm  reception 
with  a panfull  of  Bilin  water.  I was  woke  arly  by  the  Elder.  He  sed  refreshments 
was  reddy  for  me  down  stairs,  then  saying  I was  a man  of  sin,  he  went  groaning 
away. 

As  I was  going  threw  the  entry  to  the  room  where  the  wittles  was,  I cum  across 
the  Elder  and  the  old  female  I’d  met  the  night  before,  and  what  d’ye  spose  they  was 
up  to?  Huggin  and  kissin  like  young  lovers  in  their  gushingist  state.  Sez  I, 

“ My  Shaker  friends,  I reckon  you’d  better  suspend  the  rules  and  git  married.” 

“You  must  excoos  Brother  Uriah,”  sed  the  female;  “he’s  subject  to  fits  and  , 
hain’t  got  no  command  over  hisself  when  he’s  into  ’em.”  “ Sartinly,”  sez  I,  “ I’ve 

bin  took  that  way  myself  frequent.” 

“ You’re  a man  of  sin  ! ” sed  the  Elder.  Arter  breakfust  my  little  Shaker  friends 
cum  in  agin  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

“ My  pretty  dears,”  sez  I,  “ shall  we  yay  agin  ? ” 


330 


THE  SHAKERS. 


“ Nay,”  they  sed  and  I nay’d. 

The  Shakers  axed  me  to  go  to  their  meetin,  as  they  was  to  have  sarvices  that 
morning,  so  I put  on  a clean  biled  rag  and  went.  The  meetin  house  was  as  neat 
as  a pin. 

The  floor  was  as  white  as  chalk  and  smooth  as  glass.  The  Shakers  was  all  on 
hand,  in  clean  weskits  and  meal-bags,  ranged  on  the  floor  like  milingtery  compa- 
nies, the  mails  on  one  side  of  the  room  and  the  females  on  tother.  They  comments 
clappin  their  hands  and  singin  and  dancin.  They  danced  kinder  slow  at  fust,  but 
as  they  got  warmed  up  they  shaved  it  down  very  brisk,  I tell  you — Elder  Uriah,  in 
particler,  exhibeted  a right  smart  chance  of  spryness  in  his  legs,  considerin  his 
time  of  life,  and  as  he  cum  a double  shuffle  near  where  I sot,  I rewarded  him  with 
a approvin  smile  and  sed  : “ Hunky  Boy  ! Go  it,  my  gay  and  festiv  cuss  ! ” 

“ You’re  a man  of  sin  ! ” he  sed,  continnerin  his  shuffle.  The  Sperret,  as  they 
called  it,  then  moved  a short  fat  Shaker  to  say  a few  remarks.  He  sed  they  was 
Shakers  and  all  was  ekal.  They  was  the  purest  and  Seleckest  people  on  the  yearth. 

Other  people  was  sinful  as  they  could  be,  but  Shakers  was  all  right. 

Shakers  was  all  going  kerslap  to  the  Promist  Land,  and  nobody  want  going  to 
stand  at  the  gate  to  bar  ’em  out ; if  they  did  they’d  git  run  over. 

The  Shakers  then  danced  and  sung  agin,  and  arter  they  was  threw,  one  of  them 
axed  me  what  I thawt  of  it. 

Sez  I,  “ What  does  it  siggerfy  ? ” 

“ What  ? ” sez  he. 

“ Why  this  jumpin  and  singin  ? This  long  weskit  buziness,  and  this  anty-matri- 
mony  idee  ? My  friends,  you  air  neat  and  tidy. 

Your  lands  is  flowin  with  milk  and  honey.  Your  brooms  is  fine,  and  your  apple 
sass  is  honest.  When  a man  buys  a keg  of  apple  sass  of  you  he  don’t  find  a grate 
many  shavins  under  a few  layers  of  sass — a little  Game  I’m  sorry  to  say  sum  of  my 
New  Englan  ancestars  used  to  practiss.  Your  gardin  seeds  is  fine,  and  if  I should 
sow  ’em  on  the  rock  of  Gibraltar  probly  I should  raise  a good  mess  of  garding 
sass. 

You  are  honest  in  your  dealins.  You  air  quiet  and  don’t  distarb  nobody.  For 
all  this  I give  you  credit.  But  your  religion  is  small  pertaters,  I must  say;  you  mope 
away  your  lives  here  in  single  retchidness,  and  as  you  air  all  by  yourselvs  nothing 
ever  conflicks  with  your  pecooler  idees,  except  when  Human  Natur  busts  out  among 
you,  as  I understan  she  sumtimes  do.  (I  giv  Uriah  a sly  wink  here,  which  made 
the  old  fellow  squirm  like  a speared  Eel.)  You  wear  long  weskits  and  long  faces, 
and  lead  a gloomy  life  indeed.  No  children’s  prattle  is  ever  heard  around  your 
harthstuns — you  air  in  a dreary  fog  all  the  time,  and  you  treat  the  jolly  sunshine 
of  life  as  tho’  it  was  a thief,  driven  it  from  your  doors  by  them  weskits,  and  meal- 
bags,  and  pecooler  noshuns  of  yourn.  The  gals  among  you,  sum  of  which  air  as 
slick  pieces  of  caliker  as  I ever  sot  eyes  on,  air  syin  to  place  their  heds  agin  weskits 
which  kiver  honest,  manly  hearts,  while  you  old  heds  fool  yerselves  with  the  idee 


THE  RAZOR-SELLER. 


331 


that  they  air  fulfillin  their  mishun  here,  and  air  contented.  Here  you  air,  all  pend 
up  by  yerselves,  talkin  about  the  sins  of  a world  you  don’t  know  nothin  of. 

Meanwhile  said  world  continners  to  resolve  round  on  her  own  axletree  onct  in 


every  24  hours,  subjeck  to  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  and  is  a very  pleas- 
ant place  of  residence.  It’s  a unnatural,  onreasonable  and  dismal  life  you’re  leading 
here.  So  it  strikes  me.  My  Shaker  friends,  I now  bid  you  a welcome  adoo.  You 
hav  treated  me  exceedin  well.  Thank  you  kindly,  one  and  all.” 

“A  base  exhibiter  of  depraved  monkeys  and  onprincipled  wax  works  1 ” sed 
Uriah. 

“ Hello,  Uriah,”  sez  I,  “ I’d  most  forgot  you.  Wall,  look  out  for  them  fits  of 
yourn,  and  don’t  catch  cold  and  die  in  the  flour  of  your  youth  and  beauty.” 

And  I resoomed  my  jerney.  Artemus  Ward. 


THE  RAZOR-SELLER. 


FELLOW  in  a market  town, 

Most  musical,  cried  razors  up  and  down, 
And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen  pence ; 
Which  certainly  seemed  wondrous  cheap, 
And,  for  the  money,  quite  a heap, 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 


A country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard — 

Poor  Hodge,  who  suffered  by  a broad  black  beard, 
That  seemed  a shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  his  nose : 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteen  pence  he  paid, 

And  proudly  to  himself,  in  whispers  said, 

“ This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I suppose. 


“ No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a knave, 

Provided  that  the  razors  shave  ; 

It  certainly  will  be  a monstrous  prize.” 

So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good  fortune,  went 
Smiling,  in  heart  and  soul  content, 

And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a dish  or  tub, 

Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a hedger  cutting  furze ; 

’Twas  a vile  razor ! — then  the  rest  he  tried — 

All  were  impostors.  “Ah,”  Hodge  sighed, 

“ I wish  my  eighteen  pence  within  my  purse.” 

In  vain  to  chase  his  beard,  and  bring  the  graces, 

He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winced,  and  stamped,  and 
swore ; 


Brought  blood,  and  danced,  blasphemed,  and  made 
wry  faces, 

And  cursed  each  razor’s  body  o’er  and  o’er : 

His  muzzle  formed  of  opposition  stuff, 

Firm  as  a Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  ruff ; 

So  kept  it — laughing  at  the  steel  and  suds. 

Hodge,  in  a passion,  stretched  his  angry  jaws, 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance  with  clenched  claws, 

On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 

“ Razors ! a mean,  confounded  dog, 

Not  fit  to  scrape  a hog  ! ” 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow — found  him — and  begun  : 

“ P’rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue,  to  you  ’tis  fun, 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives. 

You  rascal ! for  an  hour  have  I been  grubbing, 

Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a scrubbing, 

With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 

Sirrah ! I tell  you  you’re  a knave. 

To  cry  up  razors  that  can’t  shave ! ” 

“Friend,”  quoth  the  razor-man,  “ I’m  not  a knave  ; 
As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 

Upon  my  soul,  I never  thought 
That  they  would  shave  P 

“ Not  think  they’d  shave /”  quoth  Hodge,  with  won- 
dering eyes, 

And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell ; 

“What  were  they  made  for,  then,  you  dog?”  he 
cries. 

“Made”  quoth  the  fellow  with  a smile — “to  sell." 

Dr.  John  Wolcott  ( Peter  Pindar). 


A DITTY. 


Y true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given : 
I hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss ; 

There  never  was  a better  bargain  driven : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I have  his. 


His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides. 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 

I cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


332 


TO  A LOUSE. 


TO  A LOUSE. 

ON  SEEING  ONE  ON  A LADY’S  BONNET  AT  CHURCH. 


A ! whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin’  ferlie  ? 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly : 

I canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 
Owre  gauze  an’  lace ; 

Though,  faith ! I fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin’,  blastit  wonner, 

Detested,  shunned  by  saunt  an’  sinner, 

How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a lady  ? 

Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar’s  haffet  squattle ; 
There  ye  may  creep  and  sprawl  and  sprattle 
Wi’  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations : 

Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne’er  daur  unsettle 
Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  you  there,  ye’re  out  o’  sight, 
Below  the  fatt’rels,  snug  an’  tight ; 

Na,  faith  ye  yet ! ye’ll  no  be  right 
Till  ye’ve  got  on  it. 

The  very  tapmost  tow’ring  height 
O’  Miss’s  bonnet. 


My  sooth ; right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  o«t«. 

As  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet; 

0 for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum ! 

I’d  gie  you  sic  a hearty  dose  o’t, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum ! 

1 wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife’s  flannen  toy; 

Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On ’s  wyliecoat; 

But  Miss’s  fine  Lunardi,  fie  ! 

How  daur  ye  do ’t  ? 

O Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 

An’  set  your  beauties  a’  abread  i 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 
The  blastie’s  makin’ ! 

Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I dread, 

Are  notice  takin’ ! 

O wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel’s  as  ithers  see  us ! 

It  wad  frae  monie  a blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion  : 

What  airs  in  dress  an’  gait  wad  lea’e  us, 

And  ev’n  devotion ! 

Robert  Burns. 


JENNY  KISSED  ME. 


ENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 
Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 


Say  I’m  weary,  say  I’m  sad ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me  5 
Say  I’m  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jenny  kissed  me ! 

Leigh  Hunt. 


THE  THREE  BLACK  CROWS. 


333 


WO  honest  tradesmen  meet- 
ing in  the  Strand, 

One  took  the  other,  briskly, 
by  the  hand  ; 

Hark  ye,  said  he,  ’tis  an  odd  story  this 
About  the  crows ! — I don’t  know  what 
it  is, 

Replied  his  friend. — No!  I’m  surprised 
at  that ; 

Where  I came  from  it  is  the  common 
chat; 

But  you  shall  hear ; an  odd  affair  in- 
deed ! 

And,  that  it  happened,  they  are  all 
agreed : 

Not  to  detain  you  from  a thing  so 
strange, 

A gentleman,  that  lives  not  far  from 
Change, 

This  week,  in  short,  as  all  the  alley 
knows, 

Taking  a puke,  has  thrown  up  three  black  crows. 
Impossible  ! — Nay,  but  it’s  really  true ; 

I have  it  from  good  hands,  and  so  may  you. 

From  whose,  I pray  ? — So  having  named  the  man, 
"Straight  to  inquire  his  curious  comrade  ran. 

Sir,  did  you  tell — relating  the  affair — 

Yes,  sir,  I did : and  if  it’s  worth  your  care, 

Ask  Mr.  Such-a-one,  he  told  it  me, 

But,  by-the-by,  ’twas  two  black  crows,  not  three. 

Resolved  to  trace  so  wondrous  an  event. 

Whip,  to  the  third,  the  virtuoso  went ; 

Sir — and  so  forth — Why,  yes ; the  thing  is  fact, 
Though  in  regard  to  number,  not  exact ; 

It  was  not  two  black  crows,  ’twas  only  one , 

The  truth  of  that  you  may  depend  upon, 

The  gentleman  himself  told  me  the  case — 

Where  may  I find  him  ? — Why,  in  such  a place. 


Away  goes  he,  and  having  found  him  out, 

Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  resolve  a doubt. 

Then  to  his  last  informant  he  referr’d, 

And  begg’d  to  know,  if  true  what  he  had  heard  ? 

Did  you,  sir,  throw  up  a black  crow  ? — Not  I — 

Bless  me  ! how  people  propagate  a lie  ! 

Black  crows  have  been  thrown  up,  three , two , and 
one  ; 

And  here,  I find,  all  comes,  at  last,  to  none ! 

Did  you  say  nothing  of  a crow  at  all? 

Crow — crow — perhaps  I might,  now  I recall 
The  matter  over — And,  pray,  sir,  what  was’t? 

Why,  I was  horrid  sick,  and,  at  the  last, 

I did  throw  up,  and  told  my  neighbor  so, 

Something  that  was — as  black , sir,  as  a Crow. 

John  Byrom. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 


IDOW  machree,  it’s  no  wonder  you  frown — 
Och  hone  ! widow  machree ; 

Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty 
; black  gown — 

Och  hone ! widow  machree. 

How  altered  your  air, 

With  that  close  cap  you  wear — 

’Tis  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free : 

Be  no  longer  a churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl — 
i Och  hone  ! widow  machree. 

Widow  machree,  now  the  summer  is  come — 

Och  hone  ! widow  machree ; 

When  everything  smiles,  should  a beauty  look  glum  ? 
Och  hone ! widow  machree  ! 

See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 

And  the  rabbits  and  hares ; 

Why,  even  the  bears 


Now  in  couples  agree ; 

And  the  mute  little  fish, 

Though  they  can’t  spake,  they  wish— 
Och  hone  ! widow  machree ! 


Widow  machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in — 
Och  hone  ! widow  machree — 

To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a sin, 

Och  hone  ! widow  machree ! 

Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 

And  the  kettle  sings  songs 
Full  of  family  glee; 

While  alone  with  your  cup 
Like  a hermit  you  sup, 

Och  hone ! widow  machree  ! 


And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  I’ve  towld — 
Och  hone  ! widow  machree — 


WOMAN’S  RIGHTS. 


334 


But  you’re  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the  cowld  ? 
Och  hone  ! widow  machree  ! 

With  such  sins  on  your  head, 

Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled ; 

Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 
Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 

That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying  “Och  hone  ! widow  machree  ! ” 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  widow  machree — 


Och  hone  ! widow  machree  ! — 

And  with  my  advice,  faith,  I wish  you’d  take  me, 
Och  hone ! widow  machree  ! 

You’d  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire ; 

And  sure  hope  is  no  liar 
In  whispering  to  me 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart  - 
When  you’d  me  near  your  heart — 

Och  hone  ! widow  machree  ! 

Samuel  Lover. 


WOMAN’S  RIGHTS. 

PITCHT  my  tent  in  a small  town  in  Injianny  one  day  last  seeson,  and 
while  I was  standin  at  the  dore  takin  money  a deppytashun  of  ladies 
came  up  and  sed  they  wos  members  of  the  Bunkumville  Female  Re- 
formin  and  Wimins’  Rites  Associashun,  and  they  axed  me  if  they  cood 
go  in  without  payin. 

“ Not  exactly,”  sez  I,  “ but  you  can  pay  without  goin  in.” 

“Dew  you  know  who  we  air?”  said  one  of  the  wimin — a tall  and  feroshus 
lookin  critter,  with  a blew  kotton  umbreller  under  her  arm — “ do  you  know  who 
we  air,  Sir  ? ” 

“ My  impreshun  is,”  sed  I,  “ from  a kersery  view,  that  you  air  females.” 

“ We  air,  Sur,”  sed  the  feroshus  woman,  “we  belong  to  a Society  whitch  beleeves 
wimin  has  rites — whitch  beleeves  in  razin  her  to  her  proper  speer — whitch  beleeves 
she  is  indowed  with  as  much  intelleck  as  man  is — whitch  beleeves  she  is  trampled 
on  and  aboozed — and  who  will  resist  hense4th  and  forever  the  incroachments  of 
proud  and  domineering  men.” 

During  her  discourse,  the  exsentric  female  grabbed  me  by  the  coat  kollor  and  was 
swinging  her  umbreller  wildly  over  my  hed. 

“ I hope,  marm,”  sez  I,  starting  back,  “ that  your  intensions  is  honorable ! I’m  a 
lone  man  hear  in  a strange  place.  Besides,  I’ve  a wife  to  hum.” 

“ Yes,”  cried  the  female,  “ and  she’s  a slave  ! Doth  she  never  dream  of  freedom 
— doth  she  never  think  of  throwin  of  the  yoke  of  tyrinny  and  thinkin  and  votin  for 
herself! — Doth  she  never  think  of  these  here  things?” 

“ Not  bein  a natural  born  fool,”  sed  I,  by  this  time  a little  riled,  “ I kin  safely  say 
that  she  dothunt.” 

“Oh  what — what ! ” screamed  the  female,  swinging  her  umbreller  in  the  air.  “ O,. 
what  is  the  price  that  woman  pays  for  her  expeeriunce ! ” 

“ I don’t  know,”  sez  I ; “ the  price  of  my  show  is  15  cents  pur  individooal.” 

“ & can’t  our  Society  go  in  free  ? ” asked  the  female. 

“ Not  if  I know  it,”  sed  I. 

“ Crooil,  Crooil  man ! ” she  cried  & burst  into  teers. 

“ Won’t  you  let  my  darter  in  ? ” sed  anuther  of  the  exsentric  wimin,  takin  me 


COUNTRY  SLEIGHING. 


335 


afeckshunitely  by  the  hand.  “ O,  please  let  my  darter  in — she’s  a sweet  gushin 
child  of  natur.” 

“ Let  her  gush  ! ” roared  I,  as  mad  as  I cood  stick  at  their  tarnal  nonsense ; “ let 
her  gush!”  Whereupon  they  all  sprung  back  with  the  simultaneous  observashun 
that  I was  a Beest. 

“My  female  friends,”  sed  I,  “ be4  you  leeve,  I’ve  a few  remarks  to  remark;  wa 
them  well.  The  female  woman  is  one  of  the  greatest  institooshuns  of  which  this 
land  can  boste.  It’s  onpossible  to  get  along  without  her.  Had  there  bin  no  female 
wimin  in  the  world,  I should  scarcely  be  here  with  my  unparalled  show  on  this  very 
occashun.  She  is  good  in  sickness — good  in  wellness — good  all  the  time.  O woman,, 
woman ! ” I cried,  my  feelins  worked  up  to  a high  poetick  pitch,  “ you  air  an  angel 
when  you  behave  yourself ; but  when  you  take  off  your  proper  appairel  & (metty- 
forically  speaken)  get  into  pantyloons — when  you  desert  your  firesides,  & with  your 
heds  full  of  wimin’s  rites  noshuns  go  round  like  roarin  lions,  seekin  whom  you  may 
devour  someboddy — in  short,  when  you  undertake  to  play  the  man,  you  play  the 
devil  and  air  an  emfatic  noosance.  My  female  friends,”  I continnered,  as  they  were 
indignantly  departin,  “ wa  well  what  A.  Ward  has  sed.” 

Artemus  Ward. 


COUNTRY  SLEIGHING. 


N January,  when  down  the  dairy  the  cream 
and  clabber  freeze, 

When  snow-drifts  cover  the  fences  over,  we 
farmers  take  our  ease. 

At  night  we  rig  the  team,  and  bring  the  cutter  out ; 
Then  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it,  and  heap  the  furs  about. 


Here  friends  and  cousins  dash  up  by  dozens,  and 
sleighs  at  least  a score  ; 

There  John  and  Molly,  behind,  are  jolly — Nell  rides 
with  me,  before. 

All  down  the  village  street  we  range  us  in  a row : 

Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  and  over  the  crispy 
snow ! 

The  windows  glisten,  the  old  folks  listen  to  hear  the 
sleigh-bells  pass ; 

The  fields  grow  whiter,  the  stars  are  brighter,  the 
road  as  smooth  as  glass. 

Our  muffled  faces  burn,  the  clear  north-wind  blows 
cold, 

The  girls  all  nestle,  nestle,  nestle,  each  in  her  lover’s 
hold. 


Through  bridge  and  gateway  we’re  shooting  straight- 
way, their  toll-man  was  too  slow  ! 

He’ll  listen  after  our  song  and  laughter  as  over  the  hill 
we  go. 

The  girls  cry,  “ Fie ! for  shame  ! ” their  cheeks  and 
lips  are  red, 

And  so  with  kisses,  kisses,  kisses,  they  take  the  toll 
instead. 

Still  follow,  follow ! across  the  hollow  the  tavern  fronts 
the  road. 

Whoa,  now  ! all  steady ! the  host  is  ready — he  knows 
the  country  mode ! 


The  irons  are  in  the  fire,  the  hissing  flip  is  got ; 

So  pour  and  sip  it,  sip  it,  sip  it,  and  sip  it  while  ’tis  hot. 

Push  back  the  tables,  and  from  the  stables  bring  Tom, 
the  fiddler,  in ; 

All  take  your  places,  and  make  your  graces,  and  let 
the  dance  begin. 

The  girls  are  beating  time  to  hear  the  music  sound ; 

Now  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  and  swing  your 
partners  round. 

Last  couple  toward  the  left ! all  forward ! Cotillion’s 
through,  let’s  wheel : 

First  tune  the  fiddle,  then  down  the  middle  in  old  Vir- 
ginia Reel. 

Play  Monkey  Musk  to  close,  then  take  the  “long 
chasse,” 

While  in  to  supper,  supper,  supper,  the  landlord  leads 
the  way. 

The  bells  are  ringing,  the  ostlers  bringing  the  cutters 
up  anew ; 

The  beasts  are  neighing,  too  long  we’re  staying,  the 
night  is  half  way  through. 

Wrap  close  the  buffalo  robes,  we’re  all  aboard  once 
more ; 

Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  away  from  the  tavern 
door. 

So  follow,  follow,  by  hill  and  hollow,  and  swiftly  home., 
ward  glide. 

What  midnight  splendor!  how  warm  and  tender  the 
maiden  by  your  side  ! 

The  sleighs  drop  far  apart,  her  words  are  soft  and  low 

Now,  if  you  love  her,  love  her,  love  her,  ’tis  safe  to  tell 
her  so. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


336 


BABY  BYE. 


BABY  BYE. 


ABY  Bye, 

Here’s  a fly ; 

Let  us  watch  him,  you  and  I. 
How  he  crawls 
Up  the  walls, 

Yet  he  never  falls ! 

I believe  with  six  such  legs 
You  and  I could  walk  on  eggs. 

There  he  goes 
On  his  toes, 

Tickling  Baby’s  nose. 

Spots  of  red 
Dot  his  head ; 

Rainbows  on  his  back  are  spread ; 
That  small  speck 
Is  his  neck ; 

See  him  nod  and  beck. 

I can  show  you,  if  you  choose, 

"Where  to  look  to  find  his  shoes — 
Three  small  pairs, 

Made  of  hairs; 

These  he  always  wears. 

Black  and  brown 
Is  his  gown ; 

He  can  wear  it  upside  down ; 

It  is  laced 
Round  his  waist ; 

I admire  his  taste. 

Yet  though  tight  his  clothes  are  made, 
He  will  lose  them,  I’m  afraid, 

If  to-night 
He  gets  sight 
Of  the  candle-light. 


In  the  sun 
Webs  are  spun  ; 

What  if  he  gets  into  one  ? 

When  it  rains 
He  complains 
On  the  window-panes. 
Tongue  to  talk  have  you  and  I ; 
God  has  given  the  little  fly 
No  such  things, 

So  he  sings 

With  his  buzzing  wings. 

He  can  eat 
Bread  and  meat; 

There’s  his  mouth  between  his  feet. 
On  his  back 
Is  a pack 

Like  a pedler’s  sack. 

Does  the  baby  understand  ? 

Then  the  fly  shall  kiss  her  hand; 
Put  a crumb 
On  her  thumb, 

Maybe  he  will  come. 

Catch  him  ? No, 

Let  him  go, 

Never  hurt  an  insect  so; 

But  no  doubt 
He  flies  out 
Just  to  gad  about. 

Now  you  see  his  wings  of  silk 
Drabbled  in  the  baby’s  milk ; 

Fie,  O fie, 

Foolish  fly  5 

How  will  he  get  dry  ? 


NOCTURNAL  SKETCH.  337 


All  wet  flies 

Flies  can  see 

Twist  their  thighs; 

More  than  we, 

Thus  they  wipe  their  heads  and  eyes ; 

So  how  bright  their  eyes  must  be  ! 

Cats,  you  know, 

Little  fly, 

Wash  just  so, 

Ope  your  eye ; 

Then  their  whiskers  grow. 

Spiders  are  near  by. 

Flies  have  hairs  too  short  to  comb, 

For  a secret  I can  tell-r- 

So  they  fly  bareheaded  home ; 

Spiders  never  use  flies  well. 

But  the  gnat 

Then  away, 

Wears  a hat. 

Do  not  stay. 

Do  you  believe  that  ? 

Little  fly,  good-day. 

Theodore  Tilton. 

NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 

BLANK  VERSE  IN  RHYME. 


VEN  is  come;  and  from  the  dark  Park, 
hark, 

The  signal  of  the  setting  sun — one  gun  ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime 

time 

To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane  slain — 

Or  hear  Othello’s  jealous  doubt  spout  out — 

Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch ; 

Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span ; 

Or  in  the  small  Olympic  pit  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Liston,  while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings  things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue,  Young  sung; 

The  gas  upblazes  with  its  bright  white  light, 

And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl,  growl 
About  the  streets,  and  take  up  Pall-Mall  Sal, 

"Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash,  crash, 


Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a deep  sleep,  creep, 

But,  frightened  by  Policeman  B.  3,  flee, 

And  while  they’re  going,  whisper  low,  “ No  go ! ” 

Now  puss,  when  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treads  leads, 
And  sleepers,  waking,  grumble,  “ Drat  that  cat ! ” 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-will. 

Now  bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a prize  size,  rise 
In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a roar  gore  poor 
Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly ; 

But  Nursemaid  in  a nightmare  rest,  chest-pressed, 
Dreameth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 
And  that  she  hears — what  faith  is  man’s! — Ann’s 
banns 

And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr.  Rice,  twice,  thrice; 
White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a stout  shout  out, 

That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  bows’ 
woes ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


A MODEST  WIT. 


SUPERCILIOUS  nabob  of  the  East- 
Haughty,  being  great — purse-proud, 
being  rich — 

A governor,  or  general,  at  the  least, 

I have  forgotten  which — 

Had  in  his  family  a humble  youth, 

Who  went  from  England  in  his  patron’s  suite, 

An  unassuming  boy,  and  in  truth 

A lad  of  decent  parts,  and  good  repute. 

This  youth  had  sense  and  spirit; 

But  yet,  with  all  his  sense, 

Excessive  diffidence 
Obscured  his  merit. 

One  day,  at  table,  flushed  with  pride  and  wine, 

His  honor,  proudly  free,  severely  merry, 

Conceived  it  would  be  vastly  fine 
To  crack  a joke  upon  his  secretary. 

Young  man,”  he  said,  “by  what  art,  craft,  or  trade, 
Did  your  good  father  gain  a livelihood?  ”— 

**  He  was  a saddler,  sir,”  Modestus  said, 

“And  in  his  time  was  reckoned  good.” 

22 


“A  saddler,  eh ! and  taught  you  Greek, 

Instead  of  teaching  you  to  sew ! 

Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 
A saddler,  sir,  of  you  ? ” 

Each  parasite,  then,  as  in  duty  bound, 

The  joke  applauded,  and  the  laugh  went  round. 
At  length  Modestus,  bowing  low, 

Said  (craving  pardon,  if  too  free  he  made), 

“ Sir,  by  your  leave,  I fain  would  know 
Your  father’s  trade  ! ” 

“ My  father’s  trade  ! Bless  me,  that’s  too  bad ! 

My  father’s  trade  ? Why,  blockhead,  are  you  mad  ? 
My  father,  sir,  did  never  stoop  so  low — 

He  was  a gentleman,  I’d  have  you  know.” 

+ 

“ Excuse  the  liberty  I take,” 

Modestus  said,  with  archness  on  his  brow, 

“ Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 
A gentleman  of  you  ? ” 


Anonymous. 


33§ 


THE  DRUMMER. 


THE  DRUMMER. 

HE  drummer  inhabits  railroad  trains.  He  is  always  at  home  on  the 
cars.  He  also  temporarily  infests  the  best  rooms  in  hotels.  In  winter 
he  wears  an  ulster  with  the  surcingle  hanging  loose  behind,  and  in 
summer  a linen  duster. 

He  is  usually  swung  to  a satchel  containing  a comb  and  brush,  another  shirt,  a 
clean  celluloid  collar  and  a pair  of  cuffs ; also  a railroad  guide,  and  a newspaper 
wrapped  around  a suspicious-looking  bottle.  That  is  about  all  the  personal  baggage 
he  carries,  except  a “ Seaside  Library  ” novel  and  a pocket-knife  with  a corkscrew 
at  the  back  of  it.  He  has  a two-story,  iron-bound  trunk,  containing  “ sambles  of 
dem  goots,”  which  he  checks  through  to  the  next  town.  He  always  travels  for  a 
first-class  house — the  largest  firm  in  their  line  of  business  in  the  United  States,  a 
firm  that  sells  more  goods,  and  sells  them  cheaper,  than  any  two  houses  in  the 
country.  He  is  very  modest  about  stating  these  facts,  and  blushes  when  he  makes 
the  statement ; but  he  makes  it,  nevertheless,  probably  as  a matter  of  duty. 

He  can  talk  on  any  subject,  although  he  may  not  know  much  about  it,  but  what 
little  he  knows  he  knows,  and  he  lets  you  know  that  he  knows  it.  He  may  be  giv- 
ing his  views  on  the  financial  policy  of  the  British  government,  or  he  may  only  be 
telling  you  of  what,  in  his  opinion,  is  good  for  a boil,  but  he  will  do  it  with  an  air 
and  a tone  that  leaves  the  matter  beyond  dispute. 

He  is  at  home  everywhere,  and  he  never  seems  out  of  place  wherever  you  find 
him,  although  we  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  him  in  church. 

Sitting  on  his  gripsack  at  a way-station,  waiting  for  a train  six  hours  behind  time, 
and  abusing  the  railroad  officials,  from  brakeman  to  president,  with  a profuse  and 
robust  profanity  that  gives  the  air  a sulphurous  odor  for  miles  around,  he  seems  in 
perfect  keeping  with  the  surroundings.  The  scene  would  be  as  incomplete  without 
him  as  a horse-race  without  a yellow  dog  on  the  track. 

When  the  drummer  gets  into  a railroad  train,  if  alone,  he  occupies  two  seats.. 
One  he  sits  on,  and  on  the  other  he  piles  up  his  baggage  and  overcoat  and  tries  to 
look  as  if  they  didn’t  belong  to  him,  but  to  another  man  who  has  just  stepped  into 
the  smoking-car  and  would  be  back  directly. 

Drummers  are  usually  found  in  pairs  or  quartettes  on  the  cars.  They  sit  together 
in  a double  seat,  with  a valise  on  end  between  them,  on  which  they  play  euchre  and 
other  sinful  games.  When  they  get  tired  of  playing  they  go  into  the  smoking-car, 
where  the  man  who  is  travelling  for  a distillery  “ sets  ’em  up  ” out  of  his  sample- 
case,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  they  swop  lies  about  the  big  bills  of  goods  they  have 
sold  in  the  last  town  they  were  in,  tell  highly-seasoned  stories  about  their  personal 
adventures  and  exhibit  to  each  other  the  photograph  of  the  last  girl  they  made 
impressions  on. 

While  the  drummer  is  not  ostentatiously  bashful,  neither  does  he  assume  any  out- 
ward show  of  religion.  His  great  love  of  truth  is,  however,  one  of  his  strong  points, 
and  he  is  never  known  to  go  beyond  actual  facts,  except  in  the  matter  of  excessive- 


THE  DRUMMER. 


339 


baggage.  Regarding  this,  he  will  sometimes  stretch  a point  until  it  will  cover  up 
two  hundred  pounds  of  a three  hundred  pound  trunk.  He  is  the  only  man  who 
dares  address  hotel-clerks  by  their  Christian  name.  He  knows  every  hotel  in  the 
country  and  every  room  in  every  hotel.  When  he  arrives  by  a late  train,  he  is  the 
first  to  get  out  of  the  ’bus  and  reach  the  clerk’s  desk,  when  he  says  to  the  clerk  : 
“Hello,  Charley,  old  fel,  how  are  you?  Got  No.  16  for  me?”  And  the  clerk 
flashes  his  Kohinoor  and  a smile  on  him  as  he  shakes  his  hand,  pounds  the  nickel- 
plated  call-bell  and  shouts  : “John,  take  the  gentleman’s  baggage  to  No.  16.” 

In  the  dining-room  the  drummer  is  a favorite  with  the  colored  waiters,  although 
he  orders  more  dishes  and  finds  more  fault  with  the  fare  than  other  guests  do.  He 
does  not  believe  the  waiter  when  he  tells  him  that  the  milk  is  all  out,  but  sends  him; 
off  to  inquire  further  about  the  matter,  and  while  the  waiter  is  gone  he  fills  up  his 
glass  out  of  the  blue  milk  in  the  cream-pitcher.  He  flirts  with  the  chambermaids, 
teases  the  bootblacks,  and  plays  practical  jokes  on  the  regular  boarders.  He  goes 
*to  bed  at  a late  hour,  and  sleeps  so  soundly  that  the  porter  wakes  up  the  people  for 
two  blocks  around  and  shakes  the  plaster  off  the  wall  in  trying  to  communicate  to 
him  the  fact  that  the  ’bus  for  the  4.20  A.  m.  train  will  start  in  ten  minutes. 

The  drummer  has  much  to  worry  and  fret  him.  Travelling  at  night  to  save  time,, 
sleeping  in  a baggage-car  or  the  caboose  of  a freight  train,  with  nothing  but  his  ear 
for  a pillow,  bumping  over  rough  roads  on  stages  and  buck-boards,  living  on  corn- 
bread  and  coffee  dinners  in  cross-road  hotels,  yet  under  all  these  vexatious  circum- 
stances he  is  usually  good-humored  and  in  the  best  of  spirits,  although  he  some- 
times expresses  his  feelings  regarding  the  discomforts  of  travel,  and  the  toughness 
of  a beefsteak,  or  the  solidity  of  a biscuit,  in  language  that  one  would  never  think 
of  attributing  to  the  author  of  Watts’  hymns. 

All  kinds  of  improbable  stories  are  told  about  drummers,  some  of  them  being 
almost  as  improbable  as  the  stories  they  themselves  tell.  For  instance,  we  once 
heard  that  a man  saw  a drummer  in  the  piny  woods  of  North  Carolina  camping; 
out  under  an  umbrella. 

“ What  are  you  doing  here  ? ” 

“ I am  camping  and  living  on  spruce-gum  to  save  expenses,”  replied  the  drummer. 

“ What  are  you  doing  that  for  ? ” 

“ To  bring  up  the  average.” 

It  seems  that  the  firm  allowed  him  a certain  sum  per  day  for  expenses,  and  by 
riotous  living  he  had  gone  far  beyond  his  daily  allowance.  By  camping  out  under 
an  umbrella  and  living  on  spruce-gum  for  a few  days  the  expense  would  be  so* 
small  as  to  offset  the  previous  excess  he  had  been  guilty  of.  This  story  is  probably 
a fabrication. 

The  chief  end  and  aim  of  the  drummer  is  to  sell  goods,  tell  anecdotes  and  circu- 
late the  latest  fashionable  slang  phrase.  If  he  understands  his  business,  the  coun- 
try merchant  may  as  well  capitulate  at  once.  There  is  no  hope  too  forlorn,  nor  any 
country  merchant  too  surly  or  taciturn  for  the  drummer  to  tackle.  A merchant  not 


340 


WIDOW  MALONE. 


long  ago  loaded  up  a double-barreled  shotgun  with  nails,  with  the  intention  of  vac- 
cinating the  first  drummer  who  entered  his  store.  The  commercial  emissary  has 
been  talking  to  him  only  fifteen  minutes.  In  that  time  he  has  told  the  old  man  four 
good  jokes,  paid  him  five  compliments  on  his  business  and  shrewdness,  propounded 
two  conundrums  and  came  very  near  telling  the  truth  once.  As  a result,  the  san- 
guinary old  man  is  in  excellent  humor,  and  just  about  to  make  out  an  order  for  $500 
worth  of  goods  that  he  doesn’t  actually  need,  and  then  he  will  go  out  and  take  a 
drink  with  the  drummer. 

The  drummer  is  the  growth  of  this  fast  age.  Without  him  the  car  of  commerce 
would  creak  slowly  along. 

He  is  an  energetic  and  genial  cuss,  and  we  hope  that  he  will  appreciate  this  notice 
and  the  fact  that  we  have  suppressed  an  almost  uncontrollable  impulse  to  say  some- 
thing about  his  cheek.  “ Texas  Siftings.” 


WIDOW  MALONE. 


ID  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone ! 

Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone ! 

Alone ! 

O,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts  ; 

So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 


Till  one  Misther  O’Brien,  from  Clare 
(How  quare ! 

It’s  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there), 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 

Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste, 

“ O,”  says  he,  “ you’re  my  Molly  Malone, 
My  own ! 

O,”  says  he,  “ you’re  my  Molly  Malone  ! ’* 


Of  lovers  she  had  a full  score, 

Or  more, 

And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store ; 

From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Crown 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone  ! 

All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 


But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 
’Twas  known 

That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 

Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 

They  could  ne’er  catch  her  eye, 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone! 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 


And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye ! 

Ne’er  thought  of  a simper  or  sigh, 

For  why  ? 

But,  “ Lucius,”  says  she, 

“ Since  you’ve  now  made  so  free, 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone.” 

There’s  a moral  contained  in  my  song. 

Not  wrong ; 

And  one  comfort,  it’s  not  very  long, 

But  strong — 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh ; 

For  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 
Ohone ! 

O,  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone ! 

Charles  Lever. 


I DOUBT  IT. 


| HEN  a pair  of  red  lips  are  upturned  to  your 
own, 

With  no  one  to  gossip  about  it, 

Do  you  pray  for  endurance  to  let  them  alone? 
Well,  maybe  you  do — but  I doubt  it. 


When  a sly  little  hand  you’re  permitted  to  seize, 
With  a velvety  softness  about  it, 

Do  you  think  you  can  drop  it  with  never  a squeeze  ? 
Well,  maybe  you  can — but  I doubt  it. 


1 


DECEMBER  AND  31  AY, 


When  a tapering  waist  is  in  reach  of  your  arm, 

With  a wonderful  plumpness  about  it, 

Do  you  argue  the  point  ’twixt  the  good  and  the  harm  ? 
Well,  maybe  you  do — but  I doubt  it. 


54* 


And  if  by  these  tricks  you  should  capture  a heart, 
With  a womanly  sweetness  about  it, 

Will  you  guard  it  and  keep  it  and  act  the  good  part  ? 
Well,  maybe  you  will — but  I doubt  it. 

Anonymous. 


DECEMBER  AND  MAY. 


“ Crabbed  Age  and  Youth  cannot  live  together.” 

Shaxespeare. 

AID  Nestor  to  his  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrow- 
ful one  day, 

“ Why,  dearest,  will  you  shed  in  pearls 
those  lovely  eyes  away  ? 

You  ought  to  be  more  fortified.”  “Ah,  brute,  be 
quiet,  do, 

I know  I’m  not  so  fortyfied,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you ! 

“ Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I have  ever  heard, 

You’d  die  for  me  you  swore,  and  I — I took  you  at 
your  word. 

I was  a tradesman’s  widow  then — a pretty  change  I’ve 
made ; 

To  live  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a widower  by  trade  ! ” 


“ Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in 
sober  truth, 

You  want  as  much  in  age,  indeed,  as  I can  want  in 
youth ; 

Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at 
me  you  huff.” 

“ Why,  yes,”  she  said,  “ and  so  I do — but  you’re  not 
old  enough  ! ” 

“ Come,  come,  my  dear,  let’s  make  it  up,  and  have  a 
quiet  hive. ; 

I’ll  be  the  best  of  men — I mean  I’ll  be  the  best  alive. 

Your  grieving  so  will  kill  me,  for  it  cuts  me  to  the  core.” 

“ I thank  ye,  sir,  for  telling  me,  for  now  I’ll  grieve 
the  more ! ” 

Thomas  Hood. 


OBSERVATIONS  OF  REV.  GABE  TUCKER. 


OU  may  notch  it  on  de  palin’s  as  a mighty 
resky  plan 

To  make  your  judgment  by  de  clo’es  dat 
kivers  up  a man  ; 

For  I hardly  needs  to  tell  you  how  you  often  come 
ercross 

A fifty-dollar  saddle  on  a twenty-dollar  hoss. 

An’,  wukin’  in  de  low-groun’s,  you  diskiver,  as  you  go, 
Dat  de  fines’  shuck  may  hide  de  meanes’  nubbin  in  a 
row ! 

I think  a man  has  got  a mighty  slender  chance  for 
Heben 

Dat  holds  on  to  his  piety  but  one  day  out  o’  seben ; 


Dat  talks  about  de  sinners  wid  a heap  o’  solemn  chat 

An’  nebber  draps  a nickel  in  de  missionary  hat; 

Dat’s  foremost  in  de  meetin’-house  for  raisin  all  de 
chunes, 

But  lays  aside  his  ’ligion  wid  his  Sunday  pantaloons  ! 

I nebber  judge  o’  people  dat  I meets  along  de  way 

By  de  places  whar  dey  come  fum  an’  de  houses  whar 
dey  stay ; 

For  de  bantam  chicken’s  awful  fond  o’  roostin’  pretty 
high, 

An’  de  turkey-buzzard  sails  above  de  eagle  in  de  sky  -r 

Dey  ketches  little  minners  in  de  middle  ob  de  sea, 

An’  you  finds  de  smalles’  ’possum  up  de  bigges’  kind' 
o’  tree ! 

J.  A.  Macon,  in  “ Scribner 


TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE. 

BY  A MISERABLE  WRETCH. 


OLL  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on ! 

Through  pathless  realms  of  space 
Roll  on ! 

What  though  I’m  in  a sorry  case  ? 
hat  though  I cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I suffer  toothache’s  ills  ? 
What  though  I swallow  countless  pill*  ? 
N ever  you  mind  ! 

Roll  on ! 


Through  seas  of  inky  air 
Roll  on  ! 

It’s  true  I’ve  got  no  shirts  to  wear. 

It’s  true  my  butcher’s  bill  is  due, 

It’s  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue, 

But  don’t  let  that  unsettle  you  ! 

Never  you  mind  ! 

Roll  on  ! 

[//  rolls  on. 

William  Schwenck  Gilbert. 


Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 


342 


RING  OUT , WILD  BELLS! 


LETTERS  TO  FARMERS. 

ELOVED  FARMERS  : Agrikultur  iz  the  mother  ov  farm  produce;  she 
is  also  the  step-mother  ov  gardin  sass. 

Rize  at  half-past  2 o’clock  in  the  morning,  bild  up  a big  fire  in  the 
kitchen,  burn  out  two  pounds  ov  kandles,  and  grease  yure  boots. 
Wait  pashuntly  for  dabrake.  When  day  duz  brake,  then  commence  tew  stir  up 
the  geese  and  worry  the  hogs. 

Too  mutch  sleep  iz  ruinous  tew  geese  and  tew  hogs.  Remember  yu  kant  git  rich 
on  a farm,  unless  yu  rize  at  2 o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  stir  up  the  hogs  and 
worry  the  geese. 

The  happyest  man  in  the  world  iz  the  farmer ; he  rizes  at  2 o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  watches  for  da  lite  tew  brake,  and  when  she  duz  brake,  he  goes  out  and 
stirs  up  the  geese  and  worrys  the  hogs. 

What  iz  a lawyer  ! — What  iz  a merchant  ? — What  is  a doktor  ? — What  is  a min- 
ister ? — I answer,  nothing  ! 

A farmer  is  the  nobless  work  ov  God ; he  rizes  at  2 o’clock  in  the  morning,  and 
burns  out  a half  a pound  ov  wood  and  two  kords  of  kandles,  and  then  goes  out 
tew  worry  the  geese  and  stir  up  the  hogs. 

Beloved  farmers,  adew.  Josh  Billings. 


RING  OUT,  WILD  BELLS! 


iNG  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 


Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out,  my  mournful  rhymes. 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new ; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  ; 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold, 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 


Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  paltry  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 


Ring  in  the  valiant  man,  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


MORNING. 


MORNING. 


FROM  “THE  MINSTREL.” 


UT  who  the  melodies  ot  morn  can  tell? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  moun- 
tain side ; 

The  lowing  herd ; the  sheepfold’s  simple 
bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide  ; 

The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet’s  lay  of  love, 

And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 


The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark; 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid 
sings ; 

The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield;  and,  hark  ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs; 
Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

James  Beattie. 


344 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


HEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height. 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ! 
ningled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear’st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 

To  hear  the  tempest  trumping  loud, 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 

Child  of  the  Sun  ! to  thee  ’tis  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 

To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 

To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  ! thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high ! 

When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 

Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 


Each  soldier’s  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 

And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 

And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud. 

And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight’s  pall, 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  ! on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o’er  the  brave 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside’s  reeling  rack, 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee. 

And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o’er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart’s  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ! 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us ! 
With  Freedom’s  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom’s  banner  streaming  o’er  us ! 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


She 


FROM  FAR. 


Love,  come  back,  across  the  weary  way 
Thou  didst  go  yesterday — 

Dear  Love,  come  back  ! 

“ I am  too  far  upon  my  way  to  turn : 

Be  silent,  hearts  that  yearn 

Upon  my  track.” 

O Love  ! Love  ! Love  ! sweet  Love  ! we  are  undone 
If  thou  indeed  be  gone 

Where  lost  things  are. 

“ Beyond  the  extremest  sea’s  waste  light  and  noise, 
As  from  Ghostland,  thy  voice 
Is  borne  afar.” 

O Love,  what  was  our  sin  that  we  should  be 
Forsaken  thus  by  thee  ? 

So  hard  a lot ! 

“ Upon  your  hearts  my  hands  and  lips  were  set — 

My  lips  of  fire — and  yet 

Ye  knew  me  not” 


Nay,  surely,  Love  ! We  knew  thee  well,  sweet  Love£ 
Did  we  not  breathe  and  move 
Within  thy  light  ? 

“ Ye  did  reject  my  thorns  who  wore  my  roses : 

Now  darkness  closes 

Upon  your  sight.” 

O Love  ! stern  Love  ! be  not  implacable : 

We  loved  thee,  Love,  so  well ! 

Come  back  to  us ! 

“ To  whom,  and  where,  and  by  what  weary  way 
That  I went  yesterday, 

Shall  I come  thus?  ” 

Oh  weep,  weep,  weep ! for  Love,  who  tarried  long. 
With  many  a kiss  and  song, 

Has  taken  wing. 

No  more  he  lightens  in  our  eyes  like  fire : 

He  heeds  not  our  desire, 

Or  songs  we  sing. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston. 


INDIRECTION. 


345 


INDIRECTION. 


AIR  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but 
their  subtle  suggestion  is  fairer ; 

Rare  is  the  rose-burst  of  dawn,  but  the 
secret  that  clasps  it  is  rarer ; 

Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  pre- 
cedes it  is  sweeter; 

And  never  was  poem  yet  writ,  but  the  meaning  out- 
mastered  the  metre. 

Never  a daisy  that  grows,  but  a mystery  guideth  the 
growing ; 

Never  a river  that  flows,  but  a majesty  sceptres  the 
flowing; 

Never  a Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a stronger  than 
he  did  enfold  him  ; 

Nor  ever  a prophet  foretells,  but  a mightier  seer  hath 
foretold  him. 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs  the  painter  is  hinted 
and  hidden ; 

Into  the  statue  that  breathes  the  soul  of  the  sculptor 
is  bidden ; 


MARCO  B 

Marco  Bozzaris,  the  Epaminondas  of  modern  Greece,  fell  in  a 
cient  Platsea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  vie 
not  a pain.” 

IT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance 
1 bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power ; 

In  dreams  through  camp  and  court  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a conqueror ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 

Then  wore  his  monarch’s  signet  ring ; 

Then  pressed  that  monarch’s  throne — a king : 

As  wild  his  thoughts  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden’s  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian’s  thousands  stood, 

There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 

On  old  Platsea’s  day; 

And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 

With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on  : the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 

He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

“ To  arms  ! they  come  ! the  Greek  ! the  Greek  ! ” 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 

And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 


Under  the  joy  that  is  felt  lie  the  infinite  issues  of 
feeling ; 

Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  giory  that  crowns, 
the  revealing. 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is 
symbolled  is  greater ; 

Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward 
creator ; 

Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the 
gift  stands  the  giving; 

Back  of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive 
nerves  of  receiving. 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by 
the  doing; 

The  heart  of  the  wooer  is  warm,  but  warmer  the  heart 
of  the  wooing; 

And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up 
from  the  heights  where  those  shine, 

Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the. 
essence  of  life  is  divine. 

Richard  Realf. 


night  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  an-* 
His  last  words  were  : “ To  die  for  liberty  is  a pleasure,  and' 

As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud  ; 

And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 

“ Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  ! 

Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ! 

Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land  ! ” 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  y 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 

Calmly,  as  to  a night’s  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother’s,  when  she  feels, 

For  the  first  time,  her  first-born’s  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 

Come  in  consumption’s  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm  ; 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 
With  banquet  song  and  dance  and  wine— * 

And  thou  art  terrible  : — the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 


346 


THE  REA  UTIES  OF  ENGLISH  ORTHOGRAPHY. 


But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  lor  the  free, 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a prophet’s  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 

Bozzaris  ! with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory’s  time, 


Rest  thee  : there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a sigh  ; 

For  thou  art  freedom’s  now,  and  fame’s — 

One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 
That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Fitz  Greene  Halleck. 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  ENGLISH  ORTHOGRAPHY. 


PRETTY  deer  is  dear  to  me, 

A hare  with  downy  hair, 

A hart  I love  with  all  my  heart, 
But  barely  bear  a bear. 


Quails  do  not  quail  before  the  storm, 
A bow  will  bow  before  it ; 

We  cannot  rein  the  rain  at  all — 

No  earthly  power  reigns  o’er  it. 


’Tis  plain  that  no  one  takes  a plane, 
To  have  a pair  of  pears, 

Although  a rake  may  take  a rake 
To  tear  away  the  tares. 


A scribe  in  writing  right  may  write, 
To  write  and  still  be  wrong; 

For  write  and  rite  are  neither  right, 
And  don’t  to  right  belong. 


Robertson  is  not  Robert’s  son, 

Nor  did  he  rob  Burt’s  son, 

Yet  Robert’s  sun  is  Robin’s  sun. 

And  everybody’s  sun. 

Beer  often  brings  a bier  to  man, 
Coughing  a coffin  brings, 

And  too  much  ale  will  make  us  ail, 
As  well  as  other  things. 

The  person  lies  who  says  he  lies, 
When  he  is  not  reclining ; 

And  when  consumptive  folks  decline, 
They  all  decline  declining. 


The  dyer  dyes  a while,  then  dies — 

To  dye  he’s  always  trying; 

Until  upon  his  dying  bed 

He  thinks  no  more  of  dyeing. 

A son  of  Mars  mars  many  a son, 

And  Deys  must  have  their  days ; 

And  every  knight  should  pray  each  night 
To  Him  who  weighs  his  ways. 

Tis  meet  that  man  should  mete  out  meat 
To  feed  one’s  future  son  ; 

The  fair  should  fare  on  love  alone, 

Else  one  cannot  be  won. 

The  springs  shoot  forth  each  spring,  and  shoots 
Shoot  forward  one  and  all ; 

Though  summer  kills  the  flovyers,  it  leaves 
The  leaves  to  fall  in  fall. 

I would  a story  here  commence, 

But  you  might  think  it  stale; 

So  we’ll  suppose  that  we  have  reached 
The  tail  end  of  our  tale. 

Anonymous. 


FOLDING  THE  FLOCKS. 


HEPHERDS  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up  ; for  the  air 
’Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is  ; 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a string  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  underground ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapors,  fly  apace, 

And  hover  o’er  the  smiling  face 
Of  these  pastures ; where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 


Every  one  his  loved  flock  ; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a scout 
From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day, 

Bear  a lamb  or  kid  away ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox, 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master’s  love. 

Now,  good  night  ! 'may  sweetest  slumbers 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eyelids.  So  farewell  : 

Thus  I end  my  evening  knell. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


FOLDING  THE  FLOCKS. 


(347) 


THE  DA  Y IS  DONE. 


348 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


HE  day  is  done  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night, 
As  a feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a feeling  of  sadness  comes  o’er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist. 

A feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

* Come,  read  me  a sweet  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 


Life’s  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 

And  to-night  I long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 

Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice, 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 

And  as  silently  steal  away. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  GENERAL  CHORUS. 


E all  keep  step  to  the  marching  chorus, 
Rising  from  millions  of  men  around. 
Millions  have  marched  to  the  same  before  us, 
Millions  come  on  with  a sealike  sound. 
Life,  Death  ; Life , Death  ; 

Such  is  the  song  of  human  breath. 

What  is  this  multitudinous  chorus, 

Wild,  monotonous,  low,  and  loud  ? 

Earth  we  tread  on,  heaven  that’s  o’er  us  ? 

I in  the  midst  of  the  moving  crowd  ? 


Life,  Death  ; Life,  Death  ; 

What  is  this  burden  of  human  breath  ? 

On  with  the  rest,  your  footsteps  timing ! 

Mystical  music  flows  in  the  song, 

(Blent  with  it? — Born  from  it?) — loftily  chiming. 
Tenderly  soothing,  it  bears  you  along. 

Life,  Death  ; Life,  Death  ; 

Strange  is  the  chant  of  human  breath  ! 

Fraser’s  Magazine. 


BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN. 


349 


BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN. 

HERE  is  a day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night; 
And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 

But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven’s  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 


THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 

ITH  silent  awe  I hail  the  sacred  morn, 

That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are 
still ! 

I A soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne ; 
A graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill ; 

And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  : 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene ! hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn ! 

The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove  ; 

The  sun  a placid  yellow  lustre  throws ; 

The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose  ; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move— 
So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose ! 

Dr.  John  Leyden. 


You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world ; 

They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  too  much  care. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  I. 


Great  men  may  jest  with  saints : ’tis  wit  in  them ; 
But  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

That  in  the  captain  is  but  a choleric  word, 

Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Measure  for  Measure,  Act  III. 

Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

As  You  Like  It,  A'ct  I. 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 

To  throw  a perfume  on  the  violet, 

To  smooth  the  ice  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper  light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish 
Is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess. 

King  John,  Act  IV. 

The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford 
Is  spotless  reputation ; that  away, 

Men  are  but  gilded  loam  or  painted  clay. 


That  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle  patience 
Is  pale,  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 

King  Richard  II.,  Act  I. 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 

That  is,  the  madman : the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen’s  beauty  in  a brow  of  Egypt : 

The  poet’s  eye,  in  a fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet’s  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A local  habitation  and  a name. 

A Midsummer-Night’s  Dream,  Act  V. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treason,  stratagems,  and  spoils; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  as  dull  as  night,  and  his 
affections  dark  as  Erebus : 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  V. 

. . . These  our  actors, 

As  I foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

The  cloud-capp’d  towers,  the  gorgeous  palace*, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherits  shall  dissolve, 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 

Leave  not  a rack  behind.  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a sleep. 

The  Tempest,  Act  IV, 

O,  IT  is  monstrous  ! monstrous  ! 

Methought  the  billows  spake  and  told  one  of  it, 

The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ; and  the  thunder, 

That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced 
The  name  of  Prosper. 

The  Tempest,  Act  III. 


350 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 


HE  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye, 
Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it : 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure- 
arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft,  as  I silently  gazed 
On  the  shadowy  waves’  playful  motion, 

From  the  dim  distant  hill,  ’till  the  light-house  fire 
blazed 

Like  a star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy’s  breast 
Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers ; 

The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest, 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers : 


One  moment  I looked  from  the  hill’s  gentle  slope, 
All  hushed  was  the  billows’  commotion, 

And  o’er  them  the  light-house  looked  lovely  as 
hope — 

That  star  of  life’s  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 

Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star, 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow  : 

In  life’s  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies* 
And  death  stills  the  heart’s  last  emotion ; 

Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise, 

Like  a star  on  eternity’s  ocean  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


AN  INVOCATION. 


OME  from  the  far-off  spirit-world  to-night, 
And  bathe  once  more  my  sad  and  weary 
soul 

In  all  the  softened  splendors  of  thy  light ; 
Oh!  in  my  anguish,  leave  me  not  alone. 


Let  me  but  see  the  shadow  of  thy  face ; 

Let  me  but  hear  the  music  of  thy  wings ; 
E’en  that,  I think,  would  from  my  soul  efface 
The  subtle  agony  Death  always  brings. 

Come  not  transfigured  by  the  light  of  love, 

In  garments  of  thy  soul’s  pure  bliss  arrayed; 


For  my  sad  spirit  cannot  rise  above 

The  grave,  where  all  its  fondest  hopes  are  laid. 

Come  rather  clothed  in  thy  humanity, 

With  the  same  softened  sadness  on  thy  brow. 
And  winning  sweetness  of  those  eyes,  to  me 
Nought  but  a tender  recollection  now. 

So  in  thy  twilight  smile,  half  light,  half  shade. 
The  memories  of  the  past  will  gain  new  life. 
The  outlines  of  my  grief  will  softly  fade, 

And  in  that  rest  I shall  forget  the  strife. 

Chambers’  Journal. 


SHERIDAN’S  RIDE. 


35 1 


SHERIDAN’S  RIDE. 


P from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  affrighted  air  with  a shudder  bore, 

Like  a herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain’s  door, 

The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar. 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 


And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon’s  bar  ; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 


But  there  is  a road  from  Winchester  town, 

A good,  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon’s  mouth ; 

Or  the  trail  of  a comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 


Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo  ! he  is  nearing  his  heart’s  desire ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 

What  was  done — what  to  do — a glance  told  him  both* 
And  striking  his  spurs,  with  a terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line  ’mid  a storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  be- 
cause 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray  ; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  his  red  nostril’s  play 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

“ I have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way, 

From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day.” 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky — 

The  American  soldiers’  Temple  of  Fame, 

There  with  the  glorious  General’s  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 

“ Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight 
From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away  ! ” 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 


sons  freedom,  wake  to  glory! 

Hark  ! hark  ! what  myriads  bid  you 
m rise ! 

mSjkStJy  Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires 
hoary, 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries  ! 

Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding, 

With  hireling  hosts,  a ruffian  band, 

Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 

While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding  ? 

To  arms  ! to  arms  ! ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe ; 

March  on  ! march  on  ! all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death. 

Now,  now  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling, 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise ; 


The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling, 

And  lo  ! our  fields  and  cities  blaze ; 

And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

' While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride* 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 

With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing. 
To  arms  ! to  arms  ! ye  brave,  etc. 

O Liberty  ! can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame  ? 

Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee  ? 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 

Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing 
That  falsehood’s  dagger  tyrants  wield, 

But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 

And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms  ! to  arms  ! ye  brave,  etc. 
Abbreviated  from  the  French  of  Rouget  df.  Lisle. 


Be  thou  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow, 

Thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny. 

Shakespeare — Hamlet,  Act  III. 


Whereby  repentance  is  not  satisfied, 

Is  not  of  heaven  nor  earth. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  V. 


352 


SUNSET. 


SUNSET. 


F solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean’s  echoing  shore, 
And  thou  hast  lingered  there 
Until  the  sun’s  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 
Hung  o’er  the  sinking  sphere  : 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds. 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Crowned  with  a diamond  wreath. 

And  yet  there  is  a momept, 

When  the  sun’s  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a star  o’er  ocean’s  western  edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a dark-blue  sea ; 

Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 
And  furled  its  wearied  wing 


Within  the  Fairy’s  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o’er  the  sun’s  bright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean’s  waves 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 

So  fair,  so  wonderful  a sight 
As  Mab’s  ethereal  palace  could  afford. 

Yet  likest  evening’s  vault,  that  fairy  Hall ! 
Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 

Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 

Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a silver  sea ; 

Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Looked  o’er  the  immense  of  heaven. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


LAMBS  AT  PLAY. 


AY,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and 
seen 

Spring’s  morning  smiles,  and  soul  enliv- 
ening green — 

Say,  did  you  give  the  thrilling  transport 
way, 

Did  your  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 
Leaped  o’er  your  path  with  animated  pride, 

Or  gazed  in  merry  clusters  by  your  side  ? 

Ye  who  can  smile — to  wisdom  no  disgrace  — 

At  the  arch  meaning  of  a kitten’s  face ; 

If  spotless  innocence  and  infant  mirth 
Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  reflection  birth  ; 

In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favorite  joy, 

Midst  nature’s  revels,  sports  that  never  cloy. 

A few  begin  a short  but  vigorous  race, 

And  indolence,  abashed,  soon  flies  the  place ; 

Thus  challenged  forth,  see  thither,  one  by  one, 


From  every  side,  assembling  playmates  run  ; 

A thousand  wily  antics  mark  their  stay, 

A starting  crowd,  impatient  of  delay  ; 

Like  the  fond  dove  from  fearful  prison  freed, 

Each  seems  to  say,  “ Come,  let  us  try  our  speed;  ” 
Away  they  scour,  impetuous,  ardent,  strong, 

The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  bound  along 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb, 

Where  everymole-hill  is  a bed  of  thyme, 

Then,  panting,  stop ; yet  scarcely  can  refrain, 

A bird,  a leaf,  will  set  them  off  again  : 

Or,  if  a gale  with  strength  unusual  blow, 

Scattering  the  wild-brier  roses  into  snow, 

Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try ; 

Like  the  torn  flower,  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 

Ah,  fallen  rose  ! sad  emblem  of  their  doom  ; 

Frail  as  thyself,  they  perish  while  they  bloom  ! 

Robert  Bloomfielix 


THE  LORE-LEI. 


KNOW  not  whence  it  rises, 

This  thought  so  full  of  woe  ; — 
But  a tale  of  the  times  departed 
Haunts  me — and  will  not  go. 


With  a golden  comb  she  combs  it, 
And  a wild  song  singeth  she, 

That  melts  the  heart  with  a wondrous 
And  powerful  melody. 


The  air  is  cool,  and  it  darkens, 

And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine  ; 

The  mountain  peaks  are  sparkling 
In  the  sunny  evening-shine. 

And  yonder  sits  a maiden, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

With  gold  is  her  garment  glittering, 
And  she  combs  her  golden  hair. 


The  boatman  feels  his  bosom 
With  a nameless  longing  move ; 

He  sees  not  the  gulfs  before  him, 

His  gaze  is  fixed  above, 

Till  over  boat  and  boatman 
The  Rhine’s  deep  waters  run  ; 

And  this  with  her  magic  singing 
The  Lore-Lei  hath  done  ! 

From  the  German  of  Heinrich  Heine. 


SUNSET. 


23 


(35  3) 


354 


THEOLOGY  IN  THE  QUARTERS. 


THEOLOGY  IN  THE  QUARTERS. 

FROM  “ THE  CENTURY.” 


OW,  I’s  got  a notion  in  my  head  dat  when 
you  come  to  die, 

An’  stan’  de  ’zamination  in  de  Cote-house 
in  de  sky, 

You’ll  be  ’stonished  at  de  questions  dat  de  angel’s 
gwine  to  ax 

When  he  gits  you  on  de  witness-stan’  an’  pin  you  to 
de  fac’s ; 

’Cause  he’ll  ax  you  mighty  closely  ’bout  your  doin’s 
in  de  night. 

An’  de  water-milion  question’s  gwine  to  bodder  you  a 
sight ! 

Den  your  eyes’ll  open  wider  dan  dey  ebber  done  befo’, 

When  he  chats  you  ’bout  a chicken-scrape  dat  hap- 
pened long  ago  ! 

De  angels  on  de  picket-line  erlong  de  Milky  Way 

Keeps  a-watchin’  what  you’re  dribin’  at,  an’  hearin’ 
what  you  say ; 

No  matter  what  you  want  to  do,  no  matter  whar  you’s 
gwine, 

Dey’s  mighty  ap’  to  find  it  out  an’  pass  it  ’long  de  line ; 

An’  of’en  at  de  meetin’,  when  you  make  a fuss  an’ 
laugh, 

Why,  dey  send  de  news  a-kitin’  by  de  golden  tele- 
graph ; 

Den,  de  angel  in  de  orfis,  what’s  a-settin’  by  de  gate, 

Jes’  reads  de  message  wid  a look  an’  claps  it  on  de 
slate  ! 


Den  you  better  do  your  juty  well  an’  keep  your  con- 
science clear, 

An’  keep  a-lookin’  straight  ahead  an’  watchin’  whar 
you  steer ; 

’Cause  arter  while  de  time’ll  come  to  journey  fum  de 
lan’, 

An’  dey’ll  take  you  way  up  in  de  a’r  an’  put  you  on 
de  stan’ ; 

Den  you’ll  hab  to  listen  to  de  clerk  an’  answer  mighty 
straight, 

Ef  you  ebber  ’spec’  to  trabble  froo  de  alaplaster  gate  ! 

J.  A.  Macon. 


A SONG  OF  THE  MOLE. 

E jay-bird  hunt  de  sparrer-nes’, 

De  bee-martin  sail  all  ’roun’, 

De  squir’l,  he  holler  fum  de  top  er  de  tree — 
Mr.  Mole,  he  stay  in  de  groun’ ; 
tide  en  he  stay  twel  de  dark  drap  down — 
Mr.  Mole,  he  stay  in  de  groun’. 

De  w’ipperwill  holler  fum  ’cross  de  fence — 

He  got  no  peace  er  min’ ; 

Mr.  Mole,  he  grabble  en  he  dig  twel  he  lan’ 
Un’need  * de  sweet-tater  vine  ; 

He  lan’  down  dar  whar  no  sun  aint  shine, 
Un’need  de  sweet-tater  vine. 

De  sparrer-hawk  whet  his  bill  on  de  rail — 

Oh,  ladies,  lissen  unter  me, 


Mr.  Mole,  he  handle  his  two  little  spade, 
Down  dar  whar  no  eye  kin  see  ; 

He  dig  so  fur  en  he  dig  so  free, 

Down  dar  whar  no  eye  kin  see. 

De  nigger,  he  wuk  twel  de  dark  drap  down, 
En  den  Mr.  Mole  is  he  ; 

He  sing  his  song  de  whole  night  long 
Whar  de  patter-roller  -j-  never  kin  see ; 

He  sing  en  he  play — oh,  gals,  go  ’way  ! — 
Whar  de  patter-roller  never  kin  see. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  {Uncle  Remus.') 


THE  IRISH  ECLIPSE. 

“FROM  SCRIBNER’S  MONTHLY.” 

N Watherford,  wanst,  lived  Profissorr  Mac- 
Shane, 

The  foinest  asthronomer  iver  was  sane ; 
For  long  before  noight,  wid  the  scoience 
he  knew, 

Wheriver  wan  shtar  was,  sure  he  could  see  two 

Quoite  plain, 

Could  Profissorr  MacShane. 

More  power  to  him  ! iv’ry  claare  noight  as  Would  pass. 
He’d  sit  by  the  windy,  a-shoving  his  glass ; 

A poke  at  the  dipper,  that  plaised  him  the  laist, 

But  a punch  in  the  milky  way  suited  his  taste — 

Small  blame 

To  his  sowl  for  that  same  ! 

Now  wan  toime  in  Watherford,  not  long  ago, 

They  had  what  the  loike  was  not  haard  of,  I know, 
Since  Erin  was  undher  ould  Brian  Borrhoime  : 

The  sun  was  ayclipsed  for  three  days  at  wan  toime ! 

It’s  thrue 

As  I tell  it  to  you. 

’Twas  sunroise  long  gone,  yet  the  sun  never  rose, 

And  iv’rywan  axed,  “ What’s  the  matther,  God 
knows  ? ” 

The  next  day,  and  next,  was  the  very  same  way; 

The  noight  was  so  long  it  was  lasting  all  day, 

As  black 

As  the  coat  on  yer  back. 

The  paiple  wint  hunting  Profissorr  MacShane, 

To  thry  if  he’d  know  what  this  wondher  could  mane; 
He  answered  thim  back  : “ Is  that  so  ? Are  ye  there  ? 
’Tis  a lot  of  most  iligant  gommachs  ye  air, 

To  ax 

For  the  plainest  of  facts! 

“Ye’re  part  of  an  impoire,  yez  mustn’t  forget, 

Upon  which  the  sun’s  niver  able  to  set ; 

Thin  why  will  it  give  yer  impoire  a surproise 
If  wanst,  for  a change,  he  refuses  to  roise  ? ” 

Siz  he, 

“ That  is  aizy  to  see ! M 
Irwin  Russell. 


* Underneath. 


f Patrol. 


# & 
ES  El 
rt>  ^ ^ o 

n OTQ  g; 

2.  p ^ 

►o  3 g « 

*E&  3^ 

n>  0'S  w 
w ro  i-j  ►-. 

§ :vi 

S*>  O p 
^ rt  3 C 
J-s  CTQ 

<’  5*  ?T 

CD  <"D  CO 

rt  v;  r-s 


O™  rt  <n 
<-*■  2. 

8 '“' 
rt  p c/> 

3 8*2. 

PV  V)  pV 


(355) 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A MAD  DOG. 


3 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A MAD 
DOG. 

00D  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song ; 

And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a man 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a godly  race  he  ran — 

Whene’er  he  went  to  pray. 

A kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes: 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  man  and  dog  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a pique  began, 

The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a man ! 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye  ; 

And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 


But  soon  a wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied — 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died  ! 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


BACHELOR’S  HALL. 


ACHELOR’S  HALL,  what  a quare-lookin' 
place  it  is ! 

Kape  me  from  such  all  the  days  of  my 
life ! 

Sure  but  I think  what  a burnin’  disgrace  it  is, 

Niver  at  all  to  be  gettin’  a wife. 


Pots,  dishes,  pans,  an’  such  grasy  commodities, 

Ashes  and  praty-skins  kiver  the  floor ; 

His  cupboard’s  a storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 
Things  that  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Say  the  old  bachelor,  gloomy  an’  sad  enough, 
Placin’  his  tay- kettle  over  the  fire; 

Soon  it  tips  over — Saint  Patrick  ! he’s  mad  enough. 
If  he  were  prisent,  to  fight  with  the  squire ! 

He  looks  for  the  platter — Grimalkin  is  scourin’  it ! 

Sure,  at  a baste  like  that,  swearin’s  no  sin ; 

His  dishcloth  is  missing;  the  pigs  are  devourin’  it— 
Tunder  and  turf ! what  a pickle  he’s  in  ! 

When  his  male’s  over,  the  table’s  left  sittin*  so ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves  if  you  can ; 

Divil  a drop  of  hot  water  will  visit  ye — 

Och,  let  him  alone  for  a baste  of  a man  ! 

Now,  like  a pig  in  a mortar-bed  wallowin’, 

Say  the  old  bachelor  kneading  his  dough  ; 

Troth,  if  his  bread  he  could  ate  without  swallowin’,. 
How  it  would  flavor  his  palate,  you  know ! 

Late  in  the  night,  when  he  goes  to  bed  shiverin’, 
Niver  a bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all ; 

He  crapes  like  a terrapin  under  the  kiverin’ — 

Bad  luck  to  the  pictur  of  Bachelor’s  Hall ! 

John  Finley. 


DROP,  DROP,  SLOW  TEARS. 

ROP,  drop,  slow  tears, 

And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 
Which  brought  from  heaven 
The  news  and  Prince  of  peace ! 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

His  mercies  to  entreat ; 

To  cry  for  vengeance 
Sin  doth  never  cease  ; 

In  your  deep  floods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears ; 

Nor  let  his  eye 

See  sin  but  through  my  tears. 

Phineas  Fletcher* 


SALVATION  AND  MORALITY. 


357 


SALVATION  AND  MORALITY. 

[Prof.  David  Swing,  minister  of  the  Fourth  Presbyterian  Church,  Chicago,  was  cited  to  appear  before  the  Presbytery  of  the 
city  upon  the  charge  of  Heterodoxy  by  Rev.  Dr.  Patton,  editor  of  The  Interior.  He  defended  his  theological  principles  in  an 
able  manner,  asserting  that  his  views  were  truly'  evangelical.  The  following  extract  is  from  his  beautiful  sermon  upon  “ Salvatios 
and  Morality  : ”]  ' 

HE  divine  Jesus  with  his  morality,  with  his  curse  upon  one  who  even 
called  his  brother  Raca , with  his  prayer,  “ Be  ye  perfect,”  with  his  bene- 
diction for  him  who  did  the  least  commandment  and  taught  men  so, 
with  his  whole  career  full  of  man’s  subjective  salvation,  is  an  object  too 
vast  to  be  swept  from  the  Christian  sky  by  the  besom  of  any  school,  past  or  to  come. 
Be  you  anywhere,  my  friend,  in  the  journey  of  life — in  youth,  or  middle  life,  or  old 
age,  do  not  suffer  any  voice  to  confuse  your  heart  as  to  the  need  of  a personal  obe- 
dience rendered  the  teachings  of  the  Saviour.  The  precise  meaning  of  salvation  may 
elude  your  power  of  definition.  You  may  not  be  able  to  find  that  line  that  crosses 
every  path — 

“ The  hidden  boundary  between 
God’s  patience  and  his  wrath,” 

but  whatever  darkness  may  gather  around  you,  amid  the  obscure  definitions  of  men, 
there  will  always  be  in  the  imitation  of  Jesus  Christ  a place  where  no  shadow  can 
come.  A religion  that  will  make  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  play  a second  part  in 
your  earthly  career,  comes  it  under  any  name,  Calvinist,  Methodist,  Baptist  or  Catho- 
lic, that  religion  decline,  or  abandon  so  far,  and  draw  nearer  to  him  who  knew  better 
than  all  the  schools  wherein  lies  the  best  destiny  of  the  soul. 

All  through  the  life  of  Christ  the  music  of  heaven  sounded  to  the  pure  in  heart, 
and  an  awful  thunder  rolled  in  all  the  sky,  over  the  spirit  that  sinned  in  deed  and  in 
thought;  and  when  a generation  after  the  Saviour’s  death,  the  heavens  opened  to 
the  vision  of  St.  John,  and  this  divine  Being  stood  a radiant  star  on  the  border  of 
earth,  there  came  the  same  music  again  for  the  virtuous,  the  same  thunder  in  the 
futurity  of  the  wicked.  “ Blessed  are  they  that  do  his  commandments,  that  they 
may  have  right  to  the  tree  of  life,  and  may  enter  in  through  the  gates  of  the  city  J 
for  without  are  dogs  and  sorcerers  and  murderers  and  idolaters,  and  whosoever 
loveth  and  maketh  a lie.”  Here  the  morals  of  Jesus  return  to  us  in  awful  signifi- 
cance. Let  us  not  add  to  nor  take  away  from  the  words  of  the  prophecy  of  this 
book.  David  Swing. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

“ SCRIBNER’S  MONTHLY.” 


HAT  are  you  doing  here, 

Norah,  my  dear, 

Out  in  the  dark  and  the  mist  ? ” 
“ Well,  if  you  insist — 

I am  looking  to  find 
Some  dark  brown  curls  that  I missed. 


“ But  your  hands  are  quite  wet, 
Norah,  my  pet. 

Why  are  you  walking  so  slow  ? ” 
“ Well,  if  you  must  know, 

I am  waiting  to  hear 
A voice  that  is  tender  and  low.” 


358 


RORY  O' MORE. 


“ For  me  you  have  no  word, 

“ For  you  I would  have  died, 

Norah,  my  bird. 

Norah,  my  pride, 

Why  do  you  stop  so  to  rest  ? ” 

And  now  you  my  love  despise.” 

“ Now  stand  I confessed. 

Then  softly  she  cries — 

I am  watching  to  see 

“ But  I have  found  them  all, 

The  eyes  that  I love  the  best.” 

’Twas  your  hair,  your  voice,  your  eyes.” 

Miriam  Kenyon. 

RORY  O’MORE  ; 


OR,  ALL  FOR 

OUNCi  Rory  O’ More  courted  Kathleen 
bawn — 

He  was  bold  as  a hawk,  she  as  soft  as  the 
dawn ; 

d in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 

“ Now,  Rory,  be  aisy  ! ” sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a smile  in  her  eye — 

“ With  your  tricks,  I don’t  know,  in  troth,  what  I’m 
about ; 

Faith  ! you’ve  tazed  me  till  I’ve  put  on  my  cloak 
inside  out.” 

“ Och  ! jewel,”  says  Rory,  “ that  same  is  the  way 
Ye’ve  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a day; 

And  ’tis  plazed  that  I am,  and  why  not,' to  be  sure? 
For  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory  O’More. 

“Indeed,  then,”  says  Kathleen,  “don’t  think  of  the 
like, 

For  I half  gave  a promise  to  soothering  Mike : 

The  ground  that  I walk  on  he  loves,  I’ll  be 
bound — ” 

“ Faith ! ” says  Rory,  “ I’d  rather  love  you  than  the 
ground.” 

“ Now,  Rory,  I’ll  cry  if  you  don’t  let  me  go; 

Sure  I dream  every  night  that  I’m  hating  you  so  ! ” 

“ Och  ! ” says  Rory,  “ that  same  I’m  delighted  to 
hear, 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 


GOOD  LUCK. 

So,  jewel,  keep  dhraming  that  same  till  ye  die, 

And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black 
lie ! 

And  ’tis  plazed  that  I am,  and  why  not,  to  be 
sure ! 

Since  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory 
O’More. 

“Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you’ve  tazed  me 
enough ; 

Sure  I’ve  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes  and 
Jim  Duff; 

And  I’ve  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a 
baste  — 

So  I think,  after  that,  I may  talk  to  the  praste.” 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her 
neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck ; 

And  he  looked  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming  with 
light, 

And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips — don’t  you  think  he  was 
right  ? 

“ Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir — you’ll  hug  me  no 
more — 

That’s  eight  times  to-day  that  you’ve  kissed  me  be- 
fore.” 

“ Then  here  goes  another,”  says  he,  “ to  make  sure  ! 

For  there’s  luck  in  odd  numbers,”  says  Rory  O’ More, 

Samuel  Lover. 


SALLY  SIMPKIN’S  LAMENT; 


OR,  JOHN  JONES’  KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE. 


“ He  left  his  body  to  the  sea, 

And  made  a shark  his  legatee.” 

Bryan  and  Perenne. 

WHAT  is  that  comes  gliding  in, 

And  quite  in  middling  haste  ? 

It  is  the  picture  of  my  Jones, 

And  painted  to  the  waist. 

“It  is  not  painted  to  the  life, 

For  where’s  the  trousers  blue  ? 

O Jones,  my  dear  ! — O dear  ! my  Jones, 

What  is  become  of  you  ? ” 

“ O Sally  dear,  it  is  too  true — 

The  half  that  you  remark 
Is  come  to  say  my  other  half 
Is  bit  off  by  a shark  ! 


“ O Sally,  sharks  do  things  by  halves. 
Yet  most  completely  do  ! 

A bite  in  one  place  seems  enough, 

But  I’ve  been  bit  in  two. 

“ You  know  I once  was  all  your  own, 
But  now  a shark  must  share ! 

But  let  that  pass — for  now  to  you 
I’m  neither  here  nor  there. 

“Alas  ! death  has  a strange  divorce 
Effected  in  the  sea  : 

It  has  divided  me  from  you, 

And  even  me  from  me  ! 

“ Don’t  fear  my  ghost  will  walk  o’nighte 
To  haunt  as  people  say  ; 


THE  LOW- BACK  ED  CAB. 


359 


My  ghost  can't  walk,  for,  O,  my  legs 
Are  many  leagues  away  ! 

“ Lord  ! think  when  I am  swimming  round, 
And  looking  where  the  boat  is, 

A shark  just  snaps  away  a half. 

Without  ‘ a quarter’s  notice.’ 

“ One  half  is  here,  the  other  half 
Is  near  Columbia  placed  ; 


O Sally,  I have  got  the  whole 
Atlantic  for  my  waist. 

“ But  now,  adieu — a long  adieu  ! 

I’ve  solved  death’s  awful  riddle, 

And  would  say  more,  but  I am  doomed 
To  break  off  in  the  middle  ! ” 

Thomas  Hood* 


THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR. 


HHEN  first  I saw  sweet  Peggy, 

’Twas  on  a market  day  : 

A low -backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 
Upon  a truss  of  hay ; 

But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 
And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring, 

No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 
With  the  blooming  girl  I sing. 

As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 

The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 

But  just  rubbed  his  owld  poll, 

And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 

In  battle’s  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars 
With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 
Of  death  in  warlike  cars ; 

While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 

That  knock  men  down  in  the  market  town 
As  right  and  left  they  fly; 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 

Than  battle  more  dangerous  far — 

For  the  doctor’s  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 


Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir. 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 

But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 
By  far  outnumber  these  ; 

While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a turtle-dove. 

Well  worth  the  cage,  I do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  Love  ! 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 

The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin', 

As  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 

O,  I’d  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 

Than  a coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a lady  for  my  bride  ; 

For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 

On  a cushion  made  with  taste — 

While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 

While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car, 

To  be  married  by  Father  Mahar; 

O,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh — 

Though  it  beat  in  a low-backed  car ! 

Samuel  Lover. 


FREDERICK  DOUGLASS. 

[Frederick  Douglass  was  born  in  Maryland,  February,  1817.  At  least  he  himself  supposes  this  to  have  been  the  date  of  his 
birth,  for,  as  he  says,  no  “slave  in  that  part  of  the  country  could  tell  with  any  certainty  how  old  he  was.”  The  first  twenty-one 
years  of  his  life  were  years  of  slavery,  from  which  he  escaped  in  September,  1838.  Since  then  his  acquisition  of  knowledge  under 
great  difficulty,  his  wonderful  oratory,  and  the  efforts  put  forth  in  behalf  of  his  race  have  made  him  world-famous.] 

EXTRACT  FROM  ADDRESS  AT  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  WEST  INDIA  EMANCIPATION,  DE- 
LIVERED AT  ELMIRA,  N.  Y.,  AUGUST  1st,  1880. 

ORTY  years  of  work  in  the  cause  of  the  oppressed  and  enslaved  have 
been  well  noted,  well  appreciated  and  rewarded.  All  classes  and  colors 
of  men,  at  home  and  abroad,  have  in  this  way  assisted  in  holding  up 
my  hands.  Looking  back  through  these  long  years  of  toil  and  con- 
flict, during  which  I have  had  blows  to  take  as  well  as  blows  to  give,  and  have 
sometimes  received  wounds  and  bruises,  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  my  only  regret  is 
that  I have  been  enabled  to  do  so  little  to  lift  up  and  strengthen  our  long  enslaved 
and  still  oppressed  people.  My  apology  for  these  remarks  personal  to  myself  is  in 


360 


THE  PUZZLED  CENSUS-TAKER. 


the  fact  that  I am  now  standing  mainly  in  the  presence  of  a new  generation.  Most 
of  the  men  with  whom  I lived  and  labored  in  the  early  years  of  the  abolition  move- 
ment have  passed  beyond  the  borders  of  this  life.  Scarcely  any  of  the  colored  men 
who  advocated  our  cause  and  who  started  when  I did  are  now  numbered  with  the 
living,  and  I begin  to  feel  somewhat  lonely.  But  while  I have  the  sympathy  and 
approval  of  men  and  women  like  these  before  me  I shall  give  with  joy  my  latest 
breath  in  support  of  your  claim  to  justice,  liberty  and  equality  among  men.  The 
day  we  celebrate  is  pre-eminently  the  colored  man’s  day.  The  great  event  by 
which  it  is  distinguished  and  by  which  it  will  ever  be  distinguished  from  all  other 
days  of  the  year  has  justly  claimed  thoughtful  attention  among  statesmen  and 
social  reformers  throughout  the  world.  While  to  them  it  is  a luminous  point  in 
human  history,  and  worthy  of  thought  in  the  colored  man,  it  addresses  not  merely 
the  intelligence,  but  the  feeling.  The  emancipation  of  our  brothers  in  the  West 
Indies  comes  home  to  us  and  stirs  our  hearts  and  fills  our  souls  with  those  grateful 
sentiments  which  link  mankind  in  a common  brotherhood. 

Frederick  Douglass. 


THE  PUZZLED  CENSUS-TAKER. 

*‘Nein”  (pronounced  nine)  is  the  German  for  “ No.” 

T any  boys  ? the  mar- 
shal said 

To  a lady  from  over 
the  Rhine; 

And  the  lady  shook 
her  flaxen  head, 
And  civilly  answer- 
ed, “ Nein  ! ” 

“ Got  any  girls  ? ” the 
marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from 
over  the  Rhine ; 
And  again  the  lady 
shook  her  head, 
And  civilly  answer- 
ed, “ Nein  ! ” 

“ But  some  are  dead  ? ” 
the  marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 

And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  “ Nein  /” 

" Husband,  of  course,”  the  marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine  ; 

And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  “ Nein  ! ” 

The  devil  you  have  ! ” the  marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 

And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  “ Nein  ! ” 


“ Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  shaking  your  head, 
And  always  answering  ‘ Nine  ’ ? ” 

“ Ich  kann  nicht  Englisch  /”  civilly  said 
The  lady  from  over  the  Rhine. 

John  G.  Saxe. 


MIGNON. 

[This  universally  known  poem  is  also  to  be  found  in  Wilhelm 
Meister.] 


NOW’ ST  thou  the  land  where  the  fair  citron 
blows, 

Where  the  bright  orange  ’midst  the  foliage 
glows, 


Where  soft  winds  greet  us  from  the  azure  skies, 
Where  silent  myrtles,  stately  laurels  rise, 
Know’st  thou  it  well  ? 

’Tis  there,  ’tis  there, 

That  I with  thee,  beloved  one,  would  repair. 


Know’st  thou  the  house  ? On  columns  rests  its  pile, 
Its  halls  are  gleaming  and  its  chambers  smile, 

And  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me : 

Poor  child  ! what  sorrow  hath  befallen  thee  ? 
Know’st  thou  it  well  ? 

’Tis  there,  ’tis  there, 

That  I with  thee,  protector,  would  repair ! 


Know’st  thou  the  mountain  and  its  cloudy  bridge 
The  mule  can  scarcely  find  the  misty  ridge ; 

In  caverns  dwells  the  dragon’s  olden  brood, 

The  frowning  crag  obstructs  the  raging  flood. 
Knows’t  thou  it  well  ? 

’Tis  there,  ’tis  there, 

Our  path  lies,  Father,  thither,  oh  repair ! 

Goethe. 


THE  THORN  IN  THE  FLESH. 


361 


THE  THORN  IN  THE  FLESH. 

UL  had  to  make  the  best  of  his  thorn,  and  we  also  by  the  uplifting  and 
outgoing  of  the  heart  to  God.  The  outgoing  of  the  heart  in  faith,  and 

prayer,  and  patience ; and  the  confidence,  that  while  I rest  in  the  sense 

of  my  Father’s  wisdom  and  love,  and  do  the  best  I can,  things  will  be 
just  about  what  they  should  be,  and  would  be,  if  I were  the  sole  being  besides  the 
Father  in  the  universe,  and  he  had  no  thought  but  to  make  everything  come  into 
harmony  with  my  desire.  It  is  always  the  old  history  over  again  we  have  to  realize 
before  we  can  be  entirely  at  rest.  The  cup  is  held  to  our  lips,  and  we  shrink  back 

and  cry,  “ Let  this  pass  from  me;  ” but  then  the  soul  says,  “The  cup  that  my  Father 

has  given  me,  shall  I not  drink  it?  ” and  we  say,  “ Thy  will  be  done,”  and  then  there 
is  quiet.  The  sun  shines  in  the  soul  then,  though  it  is  black  night  outside ; and 
though  we  have  to  bear  after  that  the  kiss  of  the  traitor,  and  the  curse  of  the  fiend, 
and  the  crown  of  thorns,  all  in  the  flesh  together,  and  the  cross  and  shame,  we  can 
bear  all,  and  be  all,  while  we  rest  in  God  and  look  up  to  our  great  Forerunner, 
whose  life,  from  the  time  he  came  forth  to  help  us  bear  our  burdens,  was  one  long 
pain,  the  thorn  always  hurting ; that  so  we  might  learn  how  the  way  to  the  loftiest 
life  in  heaven  may  be  through  the  roughest  ways  of  earth. 


“ ’Tis  alone  of  His  appointing 

That  our  feet  on  thorns  have  trod, 
Suffering,  pain,  renunciation, 

Only  bring  us  nearer  God. 


Strength  sublime  may  rise  from  weakness, 
Groans  be  turned  to  songs  of  praise ; 

Nor  are  life’s  divinest  labors 
Only  told  by  songs  of  praise.” 

Robert  Collyer. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 


HIS  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  the  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished 
arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem 
pealing, 

Startles  the  village  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah ! what  a sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys i 
What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Misereres 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies! 

I hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman’s  song, 
And  loud,  amid  the  clamor, 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheel  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpents’  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns; 
The  soldier’s  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 


The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  canonnade. 

Is  it,  O man,  with  such  discordant  noises 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and 
courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error,’ 

There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts  : 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  abhorred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain  » 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 

The  echoing  sands  grow  fainter  and  then  cease; 

And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I hear  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  “ Peace  ! ” 

Peace  ! and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War’s  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Longfellow, 


362 


EULOGY  ON  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


EULOGY  ON  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

[Rufus  Choate  was  born  at  Ipswich,  Mass.,  on  the  first  day  of  October,  1799.  In  boyhood  he  displayed  great  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge. In  his  sixteenth  year  he  entered  Dartmouth  College,  and,  after  his  graduation  there,  remained  a year  as  tutor.  He  subse- 
quently studied  law,  in  which  he  proved  himself  the  rival  of  Daniel  Webster.  He  died  in  July,  1859.] 

Y heart  goes  back  into  the  coffin  there  with  him,  and  I would  pause.  I 
went — it  is  a day  or  two  since — alone,  to  see  again  the  home  which  he 
so  dearly  loved,  the  chamber  where  he  died,  the  grave  in  which  they  laid 
him — all  habited  as  when 

“ His  look  drew  audience  still  as  night, 

Or  summer’s  noontide  air,” 

till  the  heavens  be  no  more.  Throughout  that  spacious  and  calm  scene  all  things 
to  the  eye  showed  at  first  unchanged.  The  books  in  the  library,  the  portraits,  the 
table  at  which  he  wrote,  the  scientific  culture  of  the  land,  the  course  of  agricultural 
occupation,  the  coming-in  of  harvests,  fruit  of  the  seed  his  own  hand  had  scattered, 
the  animals  and  implements  of  husbandry,  the  trees  planted  by  him  in  lines,  in 
copses,  in  orchards,  by  thousands,  the  seat  under  the  noble  elm  on  which  he  used  to 
sit  to  feel  the  southwest  wind  at  evening,  or  hear  the  breathings  of  the  sea,  or  the 
not  less  audible  music  of  the  starry  heavens,  all  seemed  at  first  unchanged.  The 
sun  of  a bright  day,  from  which,  however,  something  of  the  fervors  of  mid -summer 
were  wanting,  fell  temperately  on  them  all,  filled  the  air  on  all  sides  with  the  utter- 
ances of  life,  and  gleamed  on  the  long  line  of  ocean.  Some  of  those  whom  on  earth 
he  loved  best,  still  were  there.  The  great  mind  still  seemed  to  preside ; the  great 
presence  to  be  with  you ; you  might  expect  to  hear  again  the  rich  and  playful  tones 
of  the  old  hospitality.  Yet  a moment  more,  and  all  the  scene  took  on  the  aspect  of 
one  great  monument,  inscribed  with  his  name  and  sacred  to  his  memory.  And  such 
it  shall  be  in  all  the  future  of  America  ! The  sensation  of  desolateness  and  loneli- 
ness and  darkness  with  which  you  see  it  now  will  pass  away ; the  sharp  grief  of 
love  and  friendship  will  become  soothed ; men  will  repair  thither  as  they  are  wont 
to  commemorate  the  great  days  of  history ; the  same  glance  shall  take  in,  and  the 
same  emotions  shall  greet  and  bless  the  harbor  of  the  Pilgrims  and  the  tomb  of 
Webster.  Rufus  Choate. 


THE  CHILDREN. 


HEN  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
And  the  little  ones  gather  round  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 
My  neck  in  a tender  embrace ; 

Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face ! 


And  when  they  are  gone  I sit  dreaming 
Of  my  childhood,  too  lovely  to  last ; 


Of  love  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

When  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past — - 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 
A partner  of  sorrow  and  sin; 

When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

Oh,  my  heart  grows  weak  as  a woman’s, 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go. 


OUR  BANNER. 


Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o’er  them, 
Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild  : 

Oh,  there  is  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a child ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households. 
They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise; 

His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes ; 

Oh,  those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven, 
They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild! 

And  I know  how  Jesus  could  liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a child. 

I ask  not  a life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 

But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 
To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun  ; 

I would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 
But  my  prayer  would  bound  back-  to  myself ; 

Ah  ! a seraph  may  pray  for  a sinner, 

But  a sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod, 


I have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge. 
They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God ; 

My  heart  is  a dungeon  of  darkness, 

Where  I shut  them  from  breaking  a rule ; 

My  frown  is  sufficient  correction ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 

Ah ! how  I shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door ! 

I shall  miss  the  “good-nights”  and  the  kisses. 
And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 

The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning  to  me. 

I shall  miss  them  at  mom  and  at  evening, 
Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street; 

I shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tramp  of  their  delicate  feet. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says,  “ The  school  is  dismissed ! 

May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed. 

Charles  Dickens. 


363 


OUR  BANNER. 

HEN  Christ  is  preached,  there  is  a defiance  given  to  the  enemies  of  the 
Lord.  Every  time  a sermon  is  preached  in  the  power  of  the  Spirit,  it 
is  as  though  the  shrill  clarion  woke  up  the  fiends  of  hell,  for  every  ser- 
mon seems  to  say  to  them,  “ Christ  is  come  forth  again  to  deliver  his 
lawful  captives  out  of  your  power;  the  King  of  kings  has  come  to  take  away  your 
dominions,  to  wrest  from  you  your  stolen  treasures,  and  to  proclaim  himself  your 
Master.”  Oh,  there  is  a stern  joy  that  the  minister  sometimes  feels  when  he  thinks 
of  himself  as  the  antagonist  of  the  powers  of  hell.  Martin  Luther  seems  always  to- 
have  felt  it  when  he  said,  “ Come  let  us  sing  the  forty-sixth  psalm,  and  let  the  devil 
do  his  worst.”  Why,  that  was  lifting  up  his  standard — the  standard  of  the  cross. 
If  you  want  to  defy  the  devil,  don’t  go  about  preaching  philosophy;  don’t  sit  down 
and  write  out  fine  sermons,  with  long  sentences,  three-quarters  of  a mile  in  extent ; 
don’t  try  and  cull  fine,  smooth  phrases  that  will  sound  sweetly  in  people’s  ears.  The 
devil  doesn’t  care  a bit  for  this  ; but  talk  about  Christ,  preach  about  the  sufferings 
of  a Saviour,  tell  sinners  that  there  is  life  in  a look  at  him,  and  straightway  the  devil 
taketh  great  umbrage.  Why,  look  at  many  of  the  ministers  in  London ! They 
preach  in  their  pulpits  from  the  first  of  January  to  the  last  of  December,  and  nobody 
finds  fault  with  them,  because  they  will  prophesy  such  smooth  things.  But  let  a 
man  preach  Christ,  let  him  declaim  about  the  power  of  Jesus  to  save,  and  press 
home  gospel  truth  with  simplicity  and  boldness,  straightway  the  fiends  of  darkness 
will  be  against  you  ; and,  if  they  cannot  bite,  they  will  show  that  they  can  howl  and 
bark.  There  is  a defiance,  I say,  it  is  God’s  defiance  ; his  gauntlet  thrown  down  to 
the  confederated  powers  of  darkness,  a gauntlet  which  they  dare  not  take  up,  for 


364 


YARN  OF  THE  “ NANCY  BELLY. 


they  know  what  tremendous  power  for  good  there  is  in  the  uplifting  of  the  cross  of 
Christ.  Wave,  then,  your  banner,  0 ye  soldiers  of  the  cross ; each  in  your  place 
and  rank  keep  watch  and  ward,  but  wave  your  banner  still ; for  though  the  adver- 
sary shall  be  wroth,  it  is  because  he  knoweth  that  his  time  is  short  when  once  the 
cross  of  Christ  is  lifted  up.  Charles  H.  Spurgeon. 


YARN  OF  THE  ‘ 

WAS  on  the  shores  that  round  the  coast 
From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 

That  I found  alone,  on  a piece  of  stone, 
An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  beard  was  long, 

And  weedy  and  long  was  he, 

And  I heard  this  wight  on  the  shore  recite 
In  a singular  minor  key  : 

Oh,  I am  a cook  and  a captain  bold, 

And  a mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a bo’sun  tight,  and  a midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig.” 

And  he  shook  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair, 

Till  I really  felt  afraid, 

Fori  couldn’t  help  thinkingthe  man  had  been  drinking, 
And  so  I simply  said : 

“Oh,  elderly  man,  it’s  little  I know 
Of  the  duties  of  men  of  the  sea, 

And  I’ll  eat  my  hand  if  I understand 
How  you  can  possibly  be 

“At  once  a cook  and  a captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a bo’sun  tight  and  a midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig.” 

Then  he  gave  a hitch  to  his  trbwsers,  which 
Is  a trick  all  seamen  larn, 

And  having  got  rid  of  a thumping  quid, 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn  : 

“ ’Twas  on  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell, 

That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea, 

And  there  on  a reef  we  came  to  grief, 

Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

■“And  pretty  nigh  all  of  the  crew  was  drowned 
(There  was  seventy-seven  o’  soul), 

And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy’s  men 
Said  ‘ Here ! ’ to  the  muster  roll. 

“ There  was  me  and  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  the  bo’sun  tight,  and  the  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig. 

“ For  a month  we’d  neither  wittles  nor  drink, 

Till  a hungry  we  did  feel, 

So  we  drawed  a lot,  and  accordin’  shot 
The  captain  for  our  meal. 

“ The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy’s  mate. 

And  a delicate  dish  he  made ; 

Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 
We  seven  survivors  stayed. 


NANCY  BELL.” 

“And  then  we  murdered  the  bo’sun  tight, 

And  he  much  resembled  pig ; 

Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me, 

On  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig. 

“ Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left, 

And  the  delicate  question,  ‘ Which 

Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle  ? ’ arose, 

And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

“For  I loved  that  cook  as  a brother,  I did, 

And  the  cook  he  worshipped  me ; 

But  we’d  both  be  blowed  if  we’d  either  be  stowed 
In  the  other  chap’s  hold,  you  see. 

“ ‘ I’ll  be  eat  if  you  dines  off  me,’  says  Tom ; 

‘Yes,  that,’  says  I,  ‘you’ll  be — 

‘ I’m  boiled  if  I die,  my  friend,’  quoth  I, 

And  ‘ Exactly  so,’  quoth  he. 

“ Says  he,  ‘ Dear  James,  to  murder  me 
Were  a foolish  thing  to  do, 

For  don’t  you  see  that  you  can’t  cook  me, 

While  I can — and  will — cook  you!' 

“ So  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 
And  the  pepper  in  portions  true 

(Which  he  ne’er  forgot),  and  some  chopped  shalot. 
And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 

“ ‘ Come  here,’  says  he,  with  a proper  pride, 

Which  his  smiling  features  tell, 

‘ ’Twill  soothing  be  if  I let  you  see 
How  extremely  nice  you’ll  smell.’ 

“And  he  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  round, 

And  he  sniffed  at  the  foaming  froth ; 

When  I ups  with  his  heels,  and  smothers  his  squeals 
In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

“And  I eat  that  cook  in  a week  or  less, 

And — as  I eating  be 

The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I almost  drops, 

For  a vyessel  in  sight  I see. 

“And  I never  larf,  and  I never  smile, 

And  I never  lark  nor  play ; 

But  I sit  and  croak,  and  a single  joke 
I have,  which  is  to  say  : 

“ ‘ Oh,  I am  a cook  and  a captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a bo’sun  tight,  and  a midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain’s  gig.’  ” 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


THE  OLD  WAYS 


THE  OLD  WAYS  AND  THE  NEW. 

jnrrBX|||  'VE  just  come  in  from  the  meadow,  wife, 

Kf  where  the  grass  is  tall  and  green ; 

IpKj  pga  I hobbled  out  upon  my  cane  to  see  John’s 
new  machine ; 

It  made  my  old  eyes  snap  again  to  see  that  mower 
mow, 

And  I heaved  a sigh  for  the  scythe  I swung,  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

Many  and  many’s  the  day  I’ve  mowed  ’neath  the  rays 
of  a scorching  sun, 

Till  I thought  my  poor  old  back  would  break,  ere  my 
task  for  the  day  was  done  ; 

I often  think  of  the  days  of  toil  in  the  fields  all  over 
the  farm, 

Till  I feel  the  sweat  on  my  wrinkled  brow,  and  the 
old  pain  come  in  my  arm. 

It  was  hard  work,  it  was  slow  work,  a-swinging  the 
old  scythe  then ; 

Unlike  the  mower  that  went  through  the  grass  like 
death  through  the  ranks  of  men. 

I stood,  and  looked  till  my  old  eyes  ached,  amazed  at 
its  speed  and  power ; 

The  work  that  it  took  me  a day  to  do,  it  done  in  one 
short  hour. 

John  said  that  I hadn’t  seen  the  half,  when  he  puts  it 
into  his  wheat, 

I shall  see  it  reap  and  rake  it,  and  put  it  in  bundles 
neat ; 

Then  soon  a Yankee  will  come  along,  and  set  to  work 
and  lam 

To  reap  it,  and  thresh  it,  and  bag  it  up,  and  send  it 
into  the  barn. 

John  kinder  laughed  when  he  said  it,  but  I said  to  the 
hired  men, 

“ I have  seen  so  much  on  my  pilgrimage  through  my 
threescore  years  and  ten, 

That  I wouldn’t  be  surprised  to  see  a railroad  in  the 
air, 

Or  a Yankee  in  a flyin’  ship  agoin’  most  anywhere.” 

There’s  a difference  in  the  work  I done,  and  the  work 
my  boys  now  do ; 

Steady  and  slow  in  the  good  old  way,  worry  and  fret 
in  the  new ; 

But  somehow  I think  there  was  happiness  crowded 
into  those  toiling  days, 

That  the  fast  young  men  of  the  present  will  not  see  till 
they  change  their  ways. 

To  think  that  I should  ever  live  to  see  work  done  in 
this  wonderful  way ! 

Old  tools  are  of  little  service  now,  and  farmin’  is  al- 
most play ; 

The  women  have  got  their  sewin’  machines,  their 
wringers,  and  every  sich  thing, 

And  now  play  croquet  in  the  door-yard,  or  sit  in  the 
parlor  and  sing. 


AND  THE  NEW.  365 


’Twasn’t  you  that  had  it  so  easy,  wife,  in  the  days  =o 
long  gone  by ; 

You  riz  up  early,  and  sat  up  late,  a toilin’  for  you  or  I. 

There  were  cows  to  milk;  there  was  butter  to  make; 
and  many  a day  did  you  stand 

A-washin’  my  toil-stained  garments,  and  wringin’  ’em 
out  by  hand. 

Ah  ! wife,  our  children  will  never  see  the  hard  work 
we  have  seen, 

For  the  heavy  task,  and  the  long  task  is  now  done 
with  a machine ; 

No  longer  the  noise  of  the  scythe  I hear,  the  mower — 
there  ! hear  it  afar  ? 

A rattlin’  along  through  the  tall,  stout  grass,  with  the 
noise  of  a railroad  car. 

Well ! the  old  tools  now  are  shoved  away ; they  stand 
a-gatherin’  rust, 

Like  many  an  old  man  I have  seen  put  aside  with  only 
a crust ; 

When  the  eye  grows  dim,  when  the  step  is  weak, 
when  the  strength  goes  out  of  his  arm, 

The  best  thing  a poor  old  man  can  do  is  to  hold  the 
deed  of  the  farm. 

There  is  one  old  way  that  they  can’t  improve,  although 
it  has  been  tried 

By  men  who  have  studied  and  studied,  and'  worried 
till  they  died ; 

It  has  shone  undimmed  for  ages,  like  gold  refined 
from  its  dross; 

It’s  the  way  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  the  simple 
way  of  the  cross.  John  H.  Yates. 


REST. 

EAUTIFUL  toiler,  thy  work  all  done, 

I PH  Beautiful  soul  into  glory  gone, 

I Beautiful  life  with  its  crown  now  won, 

God  giveth  thee  rest. 

Rest  from  all  sorrows,  and  watching,  and  fears. 
Rest  from  all  possible  sighing  and  tears, 

Rest  through  God’s  endless,  wonderful  years— 
At  home  with  the  blest. 

Beautiful  spirit,  free  from  all  stain, 

Ours  the  heartache,  the  sorrow  and  pain, 

Thine  is  the  glory  and  infinite  gain — 

Thy  slumber  is  sweet. 

Peace  on  the  brow  and  the  eyelids  so  calm, 

Peace  in  the  heart,  ’neath  the  white  folded  palm. 
Peace  dropping  down  like  a wondrous  balm 
From  the  head  to  the  feet. 

“It  was  so  sudden,”  our  white  lips  said, 

“ How  we  shall  miss  her,  the  beautiful  dead, 
Who  take  the  place  of  the  precious  one  fled ; 

But  God  knoweth  best. 

We  know  He  watches  the  sparrows  that  fall, 
Hears  the  sad  cry  of  the  grieved  hearts  that  call. 
Friends,  husband,  children,  He  loveth  them  all — 
We  can  trust  for  the  rest. 

Mary  T.  Lathrop. 


366 


THE  SYMBOL  AND  THE  REALITY. 


THE  SYMBOL  AND  THE  REALITY. 


N heaven  the  outward  and  the  inward  church  shall  absolutely  correspond ; 
but  here  and  now  the  church  may  be  so  set  upon  her  symbols  and  her 
regularities  that  she  shall  fail  of  doing  her  most  perfect  work  and  living 
her  most  perfect  life.  The  Christian  may  be  so  bound  to  rites  and 
ceremonies  that  he  loses  the  God  to  whom  they  ought  to  bring  him  near.  The 
congregation  may  be  so  jealous  for  its  liturgy  that  it  loses  the  power  of  prayer. 
The  church  at  large  may  make  so  much  of  its  apostolic  ministry  that  it  loses  the 
present  ministry  of  Christ  himself.  Here  it  certainly  is  true  that  no  symbol  is 
doing  its  true  work  unless  it  is  educating  those  who  use  it  to  do  without  itself  if 
need  be.  The  Christian  is  misusing  his  rites  and  ceremonies  unless  they  are  bring- 
ing him  more  personally  and  immediately  nearer  to  God.  The  congregation  is  not 
using  its  liturgy  aright  if  it  is  getting  more  and  more  unable  to  worship  except  in 
just  that  form  and  order;  and  the  church  is  suffering  and  not  thriving  by  her  an- 
cient ministry  if  she  is  making  it  exclusive  and  mechanical  and  calling  none  the 
ministers  of  Christ  who  have  not  that  ordination.  Everywhere  the  letter  stands 
for  the  spirit,  and  to  give  up  the  letter  that  the  spirit  may  live  more  fully,  becomes 
from  time  to  time  the  absolute  necessity  of  the  living  church. 

Rev.  Phillips  Brooks. 


‘‘LITTLE  NAN.” 


ITTLE  Nan  Gordon, 

With  the  red  hair, 

Down  by  the  post-office, 
You  know  where, 
big,  red  apples, 

Two  for  a cent, 

Gum-drops,  lozenges, 

Rose  peppermint, 

Left  her  stand 

In  the  broad  daylight, 

Ran  clear  up  here 
In  a terrible  fright. 

“ Tell  the  doctor 

To  please  come  quick, 

There’s  a man,”  she  said, 

“ That’s  awful  sick. 

A poor  old  man 
Got  hurt  by  a cart ; 

Nobody’d  come 

And  I hadn’t  the  heart 
To  stand  like  the  rest 
And  only  stare. 

So  I had  to  come, 

And  I wouldn’t  care 
If  the  boys  stole  everything  I had ; 

I’d  rather  b z poor 
Than  be  so  bad.” 

I’ll  tell  you  what 
My  mamma  said 
That  very  night 
When  she  put  me  to  bed. 


A beautiful  angel 
With  shiny  wings, 

One  of  the  kind 
That  always  sings, 

Will  come  some  time 
And  find  little  Nan, 

Who  forgot  herself 
And  for  sick  folks  ran ; 

He’ll  take  her  hand 
And  say  to  her,  “ Come 
And  go  with  me.” 

And  he’ll  show  her  his  home. 
Where  no  one  is  selfish 
And  loves  his  ease, 

But  every  one  tries 
All  the  rest  to  please.  . 

I tell  you  what 
Ed  like  to  go. 

And  a good  many  boys 
And  girls  that  I know 
And  we’re  going  to  try 
Very  hard  to  do 
All  that  is  right 

And  to  tell  what’s  true . 
Now,  don’t  you  think 
That  if  we  do 
An  angel  will  come 
And  take  us  too  ? 


Sold 


G.  W.  Thomas. 


“LITTLE  NAN." 


367 


« LITTLE  NAN.” 

A SEQUEL. 


ITTLE  Nan  Gordon, 
With  the  red  hair, 
Ran  back  to  her  stand, 
You  know  where, 
And  told  the  sick  man  : 

“ The  doctor  will  come, 
Quick  as  he  can, 

And  take  you  home.” 

But  what  a surprise 
There  met  her  eyes ; 

None  cared  for  poor  Nan 
While  she  cared  for  the  man. 

While  she  was  gone 
Some  awful  bad  boys 
Stole  her  apples,  gum-drops, 
Money  and  toys ; 

Turned  over  her  stand, 

In  the  broad  daylight. 

And  left  what  they  left 
In  a terrible  plight ; 

Stamped  on  her  basket, 

And  did — what  boys  can— 
All  that  they  could 
To  injure  poor  Nan, 

Who  cried  at  her  loss, 

But  still  was  real  glad 
That  she  did  what  was  good, 

If  others  were  bad. 

But  an  angel  stood  by, 

With  a smile  on  his  face 
And  a tear  in  his  eye, 

Who  whispered,  quite  softly, 
“ I’ll  make  it  all  right 
With  Nan  bye-and-bye.” 

The  very  next  morning, 

When  Nan  got  there — 


Down  by  the  post-office, 

You  know  where — 

Big,  red  apples, 

Two  for  a cent, 

Gum-drops  and  candies, 

Rose  peppermint — 

Lots  of  things  she  hadn’t  before. 

Of  such  as  she  did  have 
Twice  as  much  more ; 

A nice  new  table, 

A nice  money-drawer, 

For  the  money  stolen 
Twice  as  much  more ; 

New  baskets  and  candy-jars. 

Clean  and  bright, 

All  ready  for  Nan 
In  the  broad  daylight. 

And  the  angel  stood  by, 

With  a stick  in  his  hand, 

Keeping  bad  boys 
Away  from  the  stand. 

Then  he  kissed  little  Nan, 

With  the  red  hair, 

And  gave  her  the  things 

That  he’d  fixed  for  her  there. 

So  twice  glad  was  Nan 
That  she  went  to  get  help 
For  the  sick  old  man. 

\ 

Moral. 

’Tisn’t  always  true  what  folks  frequently  say 
That  children  must  wait  till  the  judgment  day 
Before  their  good  actions  will  draw  any  pay ; 

But  this  is  the  point — Nan  did  what  she  could, 
What  made  her  real  glad  was  she  was  real  good ; 
To  have  angel’s  help  you  needn’t  wait  till  you  dies 
Do  ;ood  when  you  can,  the  angel  stands  by. 

A.  W.  Dodge. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN! 


HE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 

Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane ; 

She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  passed, 
A wistful  look  she  backward  cast. 

And  said — “Auf  wiedersehen  ! ” 

With  hand  on  latch,  a vision  white 
Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 

Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 

She  said — “ Auf  wiedersehen  ! ” 

The  lamp’s  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair ; 

I linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 

Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 


To  breathe  in  thought  I scarcely  dare, 
Thinks  she — “ Auf  wiedersehen  ! ” 

’Tis  thirteen  years  ; once  more  I press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 

I hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 

I hear  “ Auf  wiedersehen  ! ” 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art  ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain. 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 

Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said,  “ Auf  wiedersehen  /” 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


368 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

'VE  wandered  to  the  village,  Tom,  I’ve  sat 
beneath  the  tree, 

Upon  the  school-house  play -gro And,  that 
sheltered  you  and  me  ; 

But  none  were  left  to  greet  me,  Tom,  and  few  were 
left  to  know, 

Who  played  with  us  upon  the  green,  some  twenty 
years  ago. 

The  grass  is  just  as  green,  Tom,  bare-footed  boys  at 
play 

Were  sporting,  just  as  we  did  then,  with  spirits  just  as 

gay- 

But  the  “ master”  sleeps  upon  the  hill,  which  coated 
o’er  with  snow, 

Afforded  us  a sledding-place,  some  twenty  years  ago. 


I visited  the  old  church-yard,  and  took  some  flowers; 
to  strow 

Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  loved,  some  twenty  years 
ago. 

Some  are  in  the  church-yard  laid,  some  sleep  beneath 
the  sea ; 

But  few  are  left  of  our  old  class,  excepting  you  and 
me ; 

And  when  our  time  shall  come,  Tom,  and  we  are 
called  to  go, 

I hope  they’ll  lay  us  where  we  played,  just  twenty 
years  ago. 

Anonymous. 


THE  IRISHWOMAN’S  LAMENT. 


The  old  school-house  is  altered  now ; the  benches  are 
replaced 

By  new  ones,  very  like  the  same  our  penknives  once 
defaced ; 

But  the  same  old  bricks  are  in  the  wall,  the  bell 
swings  to  and  fro ; 

It’s  music  just  the  same,  dear  Tom,  ’twas  twenty  years 
ago. 

The  boys  were  playing  some  old  game,  beneath  that 
same  old  tree ; 

I have  forgot  the  name  just  now — you’ve  played  the 
same  with  me 

On  that  same  spot,  ’twas  played  with  knives,  by  throw- 
ing so  and  so : 

The  loser  had  a task  to  do — there,  twenty  years  ago. 


N sure  I was  tould  to  come  in  till  yer  Honor 
To  see  would  ye  write  a few  lines  to  me 
Pat? 

He’s  gone  for  a soldier  is  Misther 
O’Conner, 

stripe  on  his  arm,  and  a band  on  his  hat. 

And  what’ll  ye  tell  him  ? Sure  it  must  be  aisy 
For  the  likes  of  yer  Honor  to  spake  wid  a pen. 

Tell  him  I’m  well , and  mavourneen  Daisy 
(The  baby,  yer  Honor)  is  better  again. 

For  when  he  went  off,  so  sick  was  the  darlint, 

She  never  hilt  up  her  blue  eyes  till  his  face, 

And  when  I’d  be  cryin’  he’d  look  at  me  wild-like, 
And  ax,  “ Would  I wish  for  the  counthry’s  dis- 
grace ?” 


Wid  a 


The  river’s  running  just  as  still;  the  willows  on  its 
side 

Are  larger  than  they  were,  Tom ; the  stream  appears 
less  wide ; 

But  the  grape-vine  swing  is  ruined,  noW,  where  once 
we  played  the  beau, 

And  swung  our  sweethearts — pretty  girls — just  twenty 
years  ago. 

The  spring  that  bubbled  ’neath  the  hill,  close  by  the 
spreading  beech, 

Is  very  low — ’twas  then  so  high  that  we  could  scarcely 
reach, 

And,  kneeling  down  to  get  a drink,  dear  Tom,  I 
started  so, 

To  see  how  sadly  I am  changed  since  twenty  years 
ago! 

’Twas  by  that  spring,  upon  an  elm,  you  know  I cut 
your  name, 

Your  sweetheart’s  just  beneath  it,  Tom,  and  you  did 
mine  the  same ; 

Some  heartless  wretch  has  peeled  the  bark,  ’twas 
dying  sure  but  slow, 

Just  as  she  died,  whose  name  you  cut,  some  twenty 
years  ago. 

My  lids  have  long  been  dry,  Tom,  but  tears  came  to 
my  eyes ; 

I thought  of  her  I loved  so  well,  those  early  broken 
ties; 


So  he  left  her  in  danger,  an’  me  sorely  gravin’, 

And  followed  the  flag  wid  an  Irishman’s  joy; 

And  it’s  often  I drame  of  the  big  drums  a batin’, 
And  a bullet  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of  me  boy. 

Tell  him  to  send  us  a bit  of  his  money 

For  the  rint,  and  the  doctor’s  bill  due  in  a wake; 
But  sure — there’s  a tear  on  your  eyelashes,  honey. 

In  faith,  I’d  no  right  wid  such  fradom  to  speak. 

I’m  over  much  triflin’.  I’ll  not  give  ye  trubble — 
I’ll  find  some  one' willin’ — oh ! what  can  it  be  ? 
What’s  that  in  the  newspaper  yer  foldin’  up  double  ? 
Yer  Honor,  don’t  hide  it,  but  rade  it  to  me. 

Dead  ! Patrick  O’Conner  ! oh,  God  ! it’s  some  ither. 

Shot  dead ! Sure  a week’s  scarce  gone  by ; 

An’  the  kiss  on  the  cheek  o’  his  sorrowing  mither, 

It  hasn’t  had  time  yet,  yer  Honor,  to  dry. 

Dead  ! Dead  ! Oh,  my  God,  am  I crazy? 

Shure  it’s  brakin’  my  heart,  yer  tellin’  me  so. 

And  what  in  the  world  will  become  of  me  Daisy  ? 
Oh,  what  can  I do  ! Oh,  where  shall  I go ! 

This  room  is  so  dark,  I’m  not  seein\  yer  Honor; 

I think  I’ll  go  home — and  a sob,  hard  and  dry. 
Rose  up  from  the  bosom  of  Mary  O’Conner, 

But  never  a tear-drop  welled  up  to  her  eye. 

Anonymous. 


JOHN  JANKIN’S  SERMON. 


369 


JOHN  JANKIN’S  SERMON. 

HE  minister  said  last  night,  says  he, 

“ Don’t  be  afraid  of  givin’, 

If  your  life  ain’t  nothin’  to  other  folks, 
Why,  what’s  the  use  of  livin’  ? ” 

And  that’s  what  I say  to  my  wife,  says  I, 

“ There’s  Brown,  that  mis’rable  sinner,! 

He’d  sooner  a beggar  would  starve,  than  give 
A cent  towards  buyin’  a dinner.” 

I tell  you  our  minister’s  prime,  he  is, 

But  I couldn’t  quite  determine, 

When  I heard  him  givin’  it  right  and  left, 

Just  who  was  hit  by  the  sermon. 

Of  course,  there  could  be  no  mistake, 

When  he  talked  of  long-winded  prayin’, 

For  Peters  and  Johnson  they  sat  and  scowled 
At  every  word  he  was  sayin’. 

And  the  minister  he  went  on  to  say, 

“ There’s  various  kinds  of  cheatin’, 

And  religion’s  as  good  for  every  day 
As  it  is  to  bring  to  meetin’. 

I don’t  think  much  of  a man  that  gives 
The  loud  Amens  at  my  preachin’, 

And  spends  his  time  the  followin’  week 
In  cheatin’  and  overreachin’.” 

I guess  that  dose  was  bitter 

For  a man  like  Jones  to  swaller ; 

But  I noticed  he  didn’t  open  his  mouth, 

Not  once,  after  that,  to  holler. 

Hurrah  ! says  I,  for  the  minister — 

Of  course,  I said  it  quiet — 

Give  us  some  more  of  this  open  talk; 

It’s  very  refreshirl’  diet. 

The  minister  hit  ’em  every  time ; 

And  when  he  spoke  of  fashion, 

And  a-riggin’  out  in  bows  and  things, 

As  woman’s  rulin’  passion, 

And  a-comin’  to  church  to  see  the  styles, 

I couldn’t  help  a-winkin’ 

And  a-nudgin’  my  wife,  and,  says  I,  “ That’s  you,” 
And  I guess  it  sot  her  thinkin’. 

Says  I to  myself,  that  sermon’s  pat ; 

But  man  is  a queer  creation ; 

And  I’m  much  afraid  that  most  o’  the  folks 
Wouldn’t  take  the  application. 

Now,  if  he  had  said  a word  about 
My  personal  mode  o’  sinnin’, 

I’d  have  gone  to  work  to  right  myself, 

And  not  set  there  a-grinnin’. 

Just  then  the  minister  says,  says  he, 

“And  now  I’ve  come  to  the  fellers 
Who’ve  lost  this  shower  by  usin’  their  friends 
As,  a sort  o’  moral  umbrellers. 

Go  home,”  says  he,  “ and  find  your  faults, 

Instead  of  huntin’  your  brother’s ; 

Go  home,”  he  says,  “ and  wear  the  coats 
You’ve  tried  to  fit  on  others.” 

My  wife,  she  nudged,  and  Brown  he  winked, 

And  there  was  lots  of  smilin’. 

And  lots  o’  lookin’  at  our  pew  ; 

It  sot  my  blood  a-bilin’. 

24 


Says  I to  myself,  our  minister 
Is  gettin’  a little  bitter; 

I’ll  tell  him  when  meetin’s  out  that  I 
Ain’t  at  all  that  kind  of  a critter. 

Anonymous. 


BILL  MASON’S  BRIDE. 

ALF  an  hour  till  train  time,  sir, 

An’  a fearful  dark  time,  too ; 

Take  a look  at  the  switch  lights, 

Fetch  in  a stick  when  you’re  through. 
“ On  time  ? ” well,  yes,  I guess  so — 

Left  the  last  station  all  right — 

She’ll  come  round  the  curve  a flyin’; 

Bill  Mason  comes  up  to-night. 

You  know  Bill?  No!  He’s  engineer. 
Been  on  the  road  all  his  life — 

I’ll  never  forget  the  morning 
He  married  his  chuck  of  a wife. 

’Twas  the  summer  the  mill-hands  struck — 
Just  off  work,  every  one ; 

They  kicked  up  the  row  in  the  village 
And  killed  old  Donevan’s  son. 

Bill  hadn’t  been  married  mor’n  an  hour. 

Up  comes  the  message  from  Kriss, 
Orderin’  Bill  to  go  up  there, 

And  bring  down  the  night  express. 

He  left  his  gal  in  a hurry, 

- And  went  up  number  one, 

Thinking  of  nothing  but  Mary, 

And  the  train  he  had  to  run. 

And  Mary  sat  down  by  the  window 
To  wait  for  the  night  express; 

And,  sir,  if  she  hadn’t  adone  so, 

She’d  been  a widow,  I guess. 

For  it  must  a’  been  nigh  midnight, 

When  the  mill-hands  left  the  Ridge — 
They  come  down — the  drunken  devils  l 
Tore  up  a rail  from  the  bridge. 

But  Mary  heard  ’em  a workin’, 

And  guessed  there  was  something  wrong, 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes, 

Bill’s  train  it  would  be  along. 

She  couldn’t  come  here  to  tell  us, 

A mile — it  wouldn’t  a’  done — 

So  she  jest  grabbed  up  a lantern, 

And  made  for  the  bridge  alone. 

Then  down  came  the  night  express,  sir. 

And  Bill  was  makin’  her  climb ! 

But  Mary  held  the  lantern, 

A swingin’  it  all  the  time. 

Well ! By  Jove ! Bill  saw  the  signal, 

And  he  stopped  the  night  express, 

And  he  found  his  Mary  cryin’ 

On  the  track,  in  her  weddin’  dress; 

Cryin’  and  laughin’  for  joy,  sir, 

An’  holdin’  on  to  the  light — 

Hello  ! here’s  the  train — good-bye,  sir, 

Bill  Mason’s  or.  time  to-night. 

F.  Bret  Harte. 


370 


PA  T'S  LOVE  LETTER. 


PAT’S  LOVE  LETTER. 

T’S  Patrick  Dolin,  myself  and  no  other, 
That’s  after  informin’  you,  without  any 
bother, 

That  your  own  darlin’  self  has  put  me  heart 
in  a blaze 

And  made  me  your  swateheart  the  rest  of  me  days. 
And  now  I sits  down  to  write  ye  this  letter, 

To  tell  how  I loves  ye,  as  none  can  love  better. 
Mony’s  the  day,  sure,  since  first  I got  smitten 
Wid  yer  own  purty  face,  that’s  bright  as  a kitten’s, 
And  yer  illegant  figger,  that's  just  the  right  size  ; 
Faith!  I’m  all  over  in  love  wid  ye,  clear  up  till  me 
eyes. 

You  won’t  think  me  desavin’,  or  tellin’  a lie, 

If  I tell  who’s  in  love  wid  me , just  ready  to  die. 
There’s  Bridget  McCregan,  full  of  coketish  tricks,. 
Keeps  flatterin’  me  pride,  to  get  me  heart  in  a fix  ; 
And  Bridget,  you  know,  has  great  expectations 
From  her  father  that’s  dead,  and  lots  of  relations. 
Then  there’s  Biddy  O’Farrel,  the  cunningest  elf, 
Sings  “ Patrick,  me  darlin’,”  and  that  means  meself. 

I might  marry  them  both , if  I felt  so  inclined, 

But  there’s  no  use  talking  of  the  likes  of  their  kind. 

I trates  them  both  alike,  without  impartiality, 

And  maintains  meself  sure  on  the  ground  of  neutrality. 
■On  me  knees,  Helen,  darlint,  I ask  your  consent 
“ For  better  or  worse,”  without  asking  a cent. 

I’d  do  anything  in  the  world — anything  you  would 
say, 

If  you’d  be  Mistress  Dolin  instead  of  Miss  Day. 

I’d  save  all  me  money  and  buy  me  a house, 

Where  nothing  should  tease  us  so  much  as  a mouse ; 
And  you’ll  hear  nothing  else  from  year  out  to  year  in, 
But  swate  words  of  kindness  from  Patrick  Dolin. 
Then — if  ye  should  die — forgive  me  the  thought, 

I’d  always  behave  as  a dacent  man  ought. 

I’d  spend  all  me  days  in  wailing  and  crying, 

And  wish  for  nothin’  so  much  as  jist  to  be  dying. 
Then  you’d  see  on  marble  slabs,  reared  up  side  by 
side, 

“ Here  lies  Patrick  Dolin,  and  Helen,  his  bride.” 

Yer  indulgence,  in  conclusion,  on  me  letter  I ask, 

For  to  write  a love  letter  is  no  aisy  task ; 

I’ve  an  impediment  in  me  speech,  as  me  letter  shows, 
And  a cold  in  me  head  makes  me  write  through  me 
nose. 

Please  write  me  a letter,  in  me  great-uncle’s  care, 
With  the  prescription  upon  it,  “ Patrick  Dolin, 
Esquare.” 

In  haste  ” write  in  big  letters,  on  the  outside  of  the 
cover, 

And  believe  me  forever,  your  distractionate  lover. 
Written  wid  me  own  hand. 

his 

Patrick  X Dolin. 

mark. 

Anonymous. 


Innocence  shall  make 

False  accusations  blush,  and  tyranny 

Tremble  at  patience. 

Winter’s  Tale,  Act  II. 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 

ELL,  wife,  I’ve  found  the  model  church — I 
worshipped  there  to-day ! 

It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times,  before 
my  hair  was  gray. 

The  meetin’-house  was  fixed  up  more  than 
they  were  years  ago, 

But  then  I felt  when  I went  in,  it  wasn’t  built  fori 
show. 

The  sexton  didn’t  seat  me  away  back  by  the  door; 

He  knew  that  I was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as  old  and 
poor: 

He  must  have  been  a Christian,  for  he  led  me  through 

The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church,  to  find  a place 
and  pew. 

I wish  you’d  heard  that  singin’ — it  had  the  old-time 
ring; 

The  preacher  said,  with  trumpet  voice,  “ Let  all  the 
people  sing!  ” 

The  tune  was  Coronation,  and  the  music  upward 
rolled, 

Till  I thought  I heard  the  angels  all  striking  their 
harps  of  gold. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away;  my  spirit  caught 
the  fire ; 

I joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice,  with  that  melo- 
dious choir, 

And  sang  as  in  my  youthful  days,  “ Let  angels  pros- 
trate fall. 

Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  Him  Lord 
of  all.” 

I tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once 
more ; 

I felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a glimpse 
of  shore; 

I almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  weather-beaten 
form, 

And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from  the  storm. 

The  preachin’  ? Well,  I can’t  just  tell  all  the 
preacher  said ; 

I know  it  wasn’t  written ; I know  it  wasn’t  read ; 

He  hadn’t  time  to  read  it,  for  the  lightnin’  of  his  eye 

Went  flashin’  along  from  pew  to  pew,  nor  passed  a 
sinner  by. 

The  sermon  wasn’t  flowery,  ’twas  simple  gospel  truth  ; 

It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me,  it  fitted  hopeful  youth. 

’Twas  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed  ; 

’Twas  full  of  invitations  to  Christ,  and  not  to  creed. 

The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in 
Jews ; 

He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  in  the  finest  pews, 

And — though  I can’t  see  very  well — I saw  the  falling 
tear 

That  told  me  hell  was  some  ways  off,  and  heaven  very 
near. 

How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled  within  that  holy 
place ! 

How  brightly  beamed  the  light  of  heaven  from  every 
happy  face ! 


ALONE  WITH  GOD. 


371 


Again  I longed  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall 
meet  with  friend, 

Where  congregations  ne’er  break  up,  and  Sabbaths 
have  no  end,” 

I hope  to  meet  that  minister — that  congregation,  too — 

In  that  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine  from 
heaven’s  blue. 

I doubt  not  I’ll  remember,  beyond  life’s  evening 

gray* 

That  happy  hour  of  worship  in  that  model  church  to- 
day. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the  victory 
be  won; 

The  shining  goal  is  just  ahead,  the  race  is  nearly  run. 

O’er  the  river  we  are  nearin’,  they  are  throngin’  to  the 
shore, 

To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no 
more. 

John  H.  Yates. 


When  every  heart  oppressed  by  hidden  grief 
Shall  gain  relief, 

When  every  weary  soul  shall  find  its  rest 
Amidst  the  blest, 

Then  all  my  heart,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Shall  be  a temple  meet,  my  God,  for  Thee. 

Anonymous. 


THE  INDIAN  CHIEFTAIN. 

WAS  late  in  the  autumn  of  ’53 

That,  making  some  business-like  ex 
cuse, 

I left  New  York,  which  is  home  to  me, 
And  went  on  the  cars  to  Syracuse. 

Born  and  cradled  in  Maiden  Lane, 

I went  to  school  in  Battery  Row, 

Till  when,  my  daily  bread  to  obtain, 

They  made  me  clerk  to  Muggins  & Co. 


ALONE  WITH  GOD. 

]LONE  with  Thee,  my  God,  alone  with 
Thee ; 

Thus  wouldst  thou  have  it  still — thus  let 
it  be ; 

There  is  a secret  chamber  in  each  mind 
Which  none  can  find 

But  He  who  made  it — none  beside  can  know 
Its  joy  or  woe. 

Oft  may  I enter  it,  oppressed  by  care, 

And  find  Thee  there 

So  full  of  watchful  love.  Thou  know’st  the  why 
Of  every  sigh. 

Then  all  Thy  righteous  dealings  shall  I see, 

Alone  with  Thee,  my  God,  alone  with  Thee. 


The  joys  of  earth  are  like  a summer’s  day, 

Fading  away; 

But  in  the  twilight  we  may  better  trace 
Thy  wondrous  grace. 

The  homes  of  earth  are  emptied  oft  by  death, 

With  chilling  breath, 

The  loved  departed  guest  may  ope  no  more 
The  well-known  door. 

Still  in  that  chamber  sealed  Thou’lt  dwell  with  me, 

And  I with  Thee,  my  God,  alone  with  Thee. 

The  world’s  false  voice  would  bid  me  enter  not 
That  hallowed  spot, 

And  earthly  thoughts  would  follow  on  the  track 
To  hold  me  back, 

Or  seek  to  break  the  sacred  peace  within 
By  this  world’s  din ; 

But,  by  Thy  grace,  I’ll  cast  them  all  aside 
Whate’er  betide, 

And  never  let  that  cell  deserted  be 

Where  I can  dwell  alone,  my  God,  with  Thee. 


But  I belonged  to  a genteel  set 

Of  clerks  with  souls  above  their  sphere, 

Who  night  after  night  together  met 
To  feast  on  intellectual  cheer. 

We  talked  of  Irving  and  Bryant  and  Spratt — 

Of  Willis,  and  how  much  they  pay  him  per  page — 
Of  Sontag  and  Julien  and  Art,  and  all  that — 

And  what  d’ye  call  it  ? — the  Voice  of  the  Age  ! 

We  wrote  little  pieces  on  purling  brooks, 

And  meadow,  and  zephyr,  and  sea,  and  sky — 
Things  of  which  we  had  seen  good  descriptions  in 
books, 

And  the  last,  between  houses  some  sixty  feet  high ! 

Somehow  in  this  way  my  soul  got  fired ; 

I wanted  to  see  and  hear  and  know 
The  glorious  things  that  our  hearts  inspired — 

The  things  that  sparkled  in  poetry  so  ! 

And  I had  heard  of  the  dark-browed  braves 
Of  the  famous  Onondaga  race, 

Who  once  paddled  the  birch  o’er  Mohawk’s  waves. 
Or  swept  his  shores  in  war  and  the  chase. 

I’d  see  that  warrior  stern  and  fleet ! 

Ay,  bowed  though  he  be  with  oppression’s  abuse r 
I’d  grasp  his  hand  ! — so  in  Chambers  Street 
I took  my  passage  for  Syracuse. 

Arrived  at  last,  I gazed  upon 

The  smoke-dried  wigwam  of  the  tribe  : 

“ The  depot,  sir,”  suggested  one — 

I smiled  to  scorn  the  idle  gibe. 

Then  to  the  baggage-man  I cried, 

“ O,  point  me  an  Indian  chieftain  out  1 ** 

Rudely  he  grinned  as  he  replied, 

“ You’ll  see  ’em  loafin’  all  about !” 


The  war  may  rage  ! Keep  Thou  the  citadel, 
And  all  is  well, 

And  when  I learn  the  fullness  of  Thy  love 
With  Thee  above, 


Wounded  I turn — when  lo,  e’en  now 
Before  me  stands  the  sight  I crave! 
I know  him  by  his  swarthy  brow ; 

It  is  an  Onondaga  brave  ! 


372 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND. 


I know  him  by  his  falcon  eye, 

His  raven  tress  and  mien  of  pride ; 

Those  dingy  draperies,  as  they  fly, 

Tell  that  a great  soul  throbs  inside  ! 

No  eagle-feathered  crown  he  wears, 

Capping  in  pride  his  kingly  brow  ; 

But  his  crownless  hat  in  grief  declares, 

“ I am  an  unthroned  monarch  now  ! ” 

0 noble  son  of  a royal  line  ! ” 

1 exclaim  as  I gaze  into  his  face, 

" How  shall  I knit  my  soul  to  thine  ? 

How  right  the  wrongs  of  thine  injured  rAce? 

“ What  shall  I do  for  thee,  glorious  one  ? 

To  soothe  thy  sorrows  my  soul  aspires, 

Speak  ! and  say  how  the  Saxon’s  son 

May  atone  for  the  wrongs  of  his  ruthless  sires ! ” 

He  speaks,  he  speaks  ! — that  noble  chief ! 

From  his  marble  lips  deep  accents  come  ; 

And  I catch  the  sound  of  his  mighty  grief — 

“ Pie ’ gV  me  tree  cent  for  git  some  rum  ! ” 

Anonymous. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND. 

OLL  ! Roland,  toll ! 

In  old  St.  Bavon’s  tower. 

At  midnight  hour, 

The  great  bell  Roland  spoke ! 

All  souls  that  slept  in  Ghent  awoke ! 
What  meant  the  thunder-stroke  ? 

Why  trembled  wife  and  maid  ? 

Why  caught  each  man  his  blade  ? 

Why  echoed  every  street 
With  tramp  of  thronging  feet — 

All  flying  to  the  city’s  wall  ? 

It  was  the  warning  call 
That  Freedom  stood  in  peril  of  a foe ! 

And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold 
Whenever  Roland  tolled, 

And  every  hand  a sword  could  hold ! 

So  acted  men 
Like  patriots  then 
Three  hundred  years  ago  ! 


Not  now  at  midnight  hour — 

Not  now  from  River  Scheldt  to  Zuyder  Zee — 
But  here — this  side  the  sea ! 

And  here,  in  broad  bright  day ! 

For  not  by  night  awaits 
A noble  foe  without  the  gates, 

But  perjured  friends  within  betray, 

And  do  the  deed  at  noon ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

Thy  sound  is  not  too  soon  ! 

To  arms  ! Ring  out  the  leader’s  call ! 

Re-echo  it  from  east  to  west 

Till  every  hero’s  breast 

Shall  swell  beneath  a soldier’s  crest ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

Till  cottager  from  cottage  wall 

Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun — 

The  heritage  of  sire  to  son 

Ere  half  of  Freedom’s  work  was  done ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll  ! 

Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

What  tears  can  widows  weep 

Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

In  shadowed  hut  and  hall 
Shall  lie  the  soldier’s  pall, 

And  hearts  shall  break  while  graves  are  filled  & 
Amen  ! so  God  hath  willed  ! 

And  may  his  grace  anoint  us  all ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

The  dragon  on  thy  tower 
Stands  sentry  to  this  hour, 

And  Freedom  so  stands  safe  in  Ghent, 

And  merrier  bells  now  ring, 

And  in  the  land’s  serene  content, 

Men  shout,  “ God  save  the  king ! ” 

Until  the  skies  are  rent 
So  let  it  be  ! 

A kingly  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free. 


Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

Ring  out  across  the  sea! 

No  longer  they,  but  we, 

Have  now  such  need  of  thee  ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

Nor  ever  let  thy  throat 
Keep  dumb  its  warning  note, 

Till  Freedom’s  perils  be  outbraved  ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

Till  Freedom’s  flag,  wherever  waved. 

Shall  shadow  not  a man  enslaved  ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

From  northern  lake  to  southern  strand  1 
Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

Till  friend  and  foe,  at  thy  command, 

Once  more  shall  clasp  each  Other’s  hand, 

And  shout,  one-voiced,  “God  save  the  land! 
And  love  the  land  that  God  hath  saved ! 

Toll ! Roland,  toll ! 

Theodore  Tilton. 


Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 

Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  grand  a tongue ; 

If  men  be  patriots  still, 

At  thy  first  sound 
True  hearts  will  bound, 

Great  souls  will  thrill ! 

Then  toll,  and  strike  the  test 
Through  each  man’s  breast, 

Till  loyal  hearts  shall  stand  confessed— 
And  may  God’s  wrath  smite  all  the  rest ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

Not  now  in  old  St.  Bavon’s  tower— 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES  OF  CONTRIBUTORS. 


ADDISON. 

Joseph  Addison  was  born  at  Wiltshire,  England,  May  1st,  1672.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  King’s 
College,  Oxford.  When  about  twenty-two  years  of  age  he  addressed  some  verses  to  the  celebrated  poet 
Dryden,  which  were  highly  praised  both  by  Dryden  himself  and  other  competent  judges.  In  1695  he  received 
a pension  of  ^300  per  annum,  which  was  occasioned  by  a poem  which  he  addressed  to  King  William  on  one 
of  his  campaigns;  but  he  lost  the  pension  again  upon  that  king’s  death  in  1702.  Addison  contributed 
largely  to  the  Tattler , the  Spectator  and  the  Guardian.  The  beauty  of  his  style  has  been  the  subject  of  the 
highest  encomiums  by  all  critics  who  have  treated  of  his  writings.  He  died  on  the  17th  of  June,  1719. 

AIRD. 

Thomas  Aird,  a great  poet,  although  little  known,  was  born  in  Roxburyshire,  Scotland,  1802.  As  a prose 
writer  he  also  held  a high  rank.  His  “ Religious  Characteristics,”  a prose  work  of  remarkable  eloquence, 
was  published  in  1856.  He  edited  the  poems  of  D.  M.  Moir,  his  friend  (the  “ Delta”  of  Blackwood' s Maga - 
zine),  in  1852.  We  have  given  elsewhere  his  great  poem,  “The  Devil’s  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck,”  be- 
lieved by  many  to  be  the  sublimest  poem  written  in  our  day.  Aird  was  for  many  years  editor  of  the  Dum- 
fries Herald.  He  died  at  Dumfries  at  the  age  of  seventy-three. 

ALDRICH. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  was  born  November  nth,  1836,  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  He  entered 
the  counting-house  of  his  uncle,  a New  York  merchant,  where  he  remained  three  years,  during  which  period 
he  began  to  write  for  the  journals,  and  was  afterwards  for  a time  proof-reader.  He  has  contributed  prose  and 
verse  to  various  periodicals,  most  of  which  have  subsequently  been  published  separately.  He  was  for  a time 
-assistant  editor  of  the  Home  Journal , New  York.  Mr.  Aldrich  is  now  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly , Boston. 

ALLSTON. 

Washington  Allston  was  distinguished  both  as  an  artist  and  poet.  He  was  born  in  Georgetown, 
South  Carolina,  in  1779.  He  qntered  Harvard  College  in  1796.  He  published  a volume  of  poems  in  Lon- 
don in  1813.  Allston  was  said  to  be  distinguished  for  his  conversational  powers  and  amiability  of  deport-* 
•ment  as  well  as  for  his  genius  and  literary  taste.  He  died  in  1843. 

$ 

BARKER. 

Edmond  Henry  Barker  was  born  in  1788.  He  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1807.  He  wai 
a contributor  to  the  Classical  Journal  for  twenty  years.  He  was  an  indefatigable  worker.  He  died  in  1839. 

BAYLEY. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayley  was  born  near  Bath,  England,  where  his  father  was  an  eminent  solicitor.  He 
was  intended  for  the  church  and  studied  for  some  time  in  Oxford.  In  1826  he  married.  In  a few  years  he 

(373) 


374 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


wrote  no  less  than  thirty-six  pieces  for  the  stage,  several  novels  and  tales,  and  his  “ songs  came  to  be  num- 
bered by  hundreds.”  He  died  in  1839. 

BEATTIE. 

Dr.  James  Beattie  was  born  in  Scotland  on  the  25th  day  of  October,  1735.  In  1758  he  became  Master 
of  the  Grammar-school  of  Aberdeen.  In  1760  he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  Marischal  Col- 
lege, but  his  reputation  as  a poet  has  surpassed  his  reputation  as  a philosopher.  He  died  on  the  18th  of 
August,  1803. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

These  two  great  dramatists  united  themselves  so  closely  in  life  that  (as  it  has  been  said)  “ in  death  they 
have  not  been  divided”  by  the  biographer.  Francis  Beaumont  was  born  in  1585,  and  died  before  he  had 
attained  his  thirtieth  year.  Of  his  life  but  little  is  known. 

John  Fletcher  was  born  in  1576.  He  was  the  son  of  Richard  Fletcher,  who  was  successively  Bishop  of 
Bristol,  Worcester  and  London.  Our  poet  was  educated  at  Cambridge  and  had  the  reputation  of  respectable 
proficiency  in  the  classics.  He  died -of  the  plague,  in  London,  in  1625,  and  was  buried  in  St.  Saviour* 
Southwark. 

BENJAMIN. 

Park  Benjamin  was  born  1809,  at  Demerara,  in  British  Guiana,  where  his  father,  a merchant  from  New 
England,  resided  for  some  years.  In  1825  he  entered  Harvard  College,  which  he  left  before  the  end  of  the 
second  year  in  consequence  of  bad  health  When  restored  to  health  he  entered  Washington  College,  Hart- 
ford, where  he  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  of  his  class  in  1829.  He  was  connected  editorially  with 
the  American  Monthly  Magazine , the  New  Yorker > etc. 

BLOOMFIELD. 

Robert  Bloomfield  was  born  at  Honington,  in  Suffolk,  in  1766.  He  was  the  son  of  a tailor,  and  was 
early  left  fatherless.  He  was  taught  to  read  by  his  mother,  who  kept  a village  school,  and  this  was  in  fact  his 
only  education.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  was  employed  in  such  husbandry  labor  as  he  could  perform,  but 
his  constitution  being  delicate,  he  was  subsequently  apprenticed  to  the  trade  of  shoemaking,  at  which  he 
worked  as  a journeyman  for  many  years.  His  leisure  hours  were  spent  in  reading  and  in  the  composition  of 
verses.  Ill-health  and  misfortunes  clouded  the  latter  years  of  this  modest  and  meritorious  writer,  and  he  died 
in  1823,  when  he  was  almost  on  the  verge  of  insanity. 

BOURDILLON. 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon,  one  of  the  younger  English  poets,  was  born  in  1852.  While  yet  an  under- 
graduate at  Worcester  College,  Oxford,  he  won  reputation  as  a poet  by  two  graceful  stanzas,  eight  lines  in  all, 
entitled  “ Light.”  They  were  speedily  translated  into  the  principal  languages  of  Europe.  Bourdillon  is  a 
native  of  Woolbedding,  in  Sussex. 

BROWNING. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  was  born  in  London.  She  was  educated  with  great  care,  and  at  an 
early  age  gave  proof  of  great  genius.  Her  “ Essay  on  Mind  and  other  Poerris”  was  published  at  the  age  of 
seventeen.  Miss  Barrett  was  married  in  1846  to  Robert  Browning,  the  poet.  Mrs.  Browning  died  in  1861. 

Robert  Browning  was  born  in  1812  at  Camberwell,  England.  He  was  educated  at  the  London  University. 
He  has  published  a number  of  dramas  and  poems  of  striking  originality  and  power,  but  many  are  somewhat 
obscure.  His  tragedy  of  Strafford  was  produced  on  the  stage  in  1837,  the  character  of  the  hero  being  per- 
sonated by  Macready.  Mr.  Browning  was  married  in  November,  1846,  to  Elizabeth  Barrett,  the  greatest 
poetess  which  England  has  produced. 

BRYANT. 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  a true  “ poet  of  nature,”  was  born  at  Cummington,  Mass.,  November  3d,  1797. 
At  the  early  age  of  ten  years  he  published  translations  from  some  of  the  Latin  poets,  and  when  only  thirteen 
wrote  a political  satire,  which  was  printed  in  Boston  in  1808.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1815.  He 
practised  law  for  ten  years  and  was  eminently  successful,  but  literature  was  more  congenial  to  his  taste,  and 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


375 


in  1825,  in  conjunction  with  another  gentleman,  he  established  the  New  York  Review  and  Athenceum  Maga- 
zine. In  1826  he  became  editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  Bryant  died  June  12th,  1878. 

BURRITT. 

Elihu  Burritt,  the  learned  blacksmith,  was  born  in  1811,  at  New  Britain,  Connecticut.  He  acquired’  a 
knowledge  of  the  Hebrew,  Greek,  Syriac,  Spanish,  Danish,  Bohemian  and  Polish  languages.  In  1842  he 
translated  some  of  the  Icelandic  sagas,  and  also  published  translations  from  the  Samaritan,  Arabic  and) 
Hebrew.  In  1843  he  began  the  study  of  the  Ethiopic,  Persian  and  Turkish  languages.  The  Latin  and) 
French  he  studied  while  an  apprentice  to  his  trade.  He  has  been  the  editor  of  many  journals,  and  has* 
travelled  and  lectured  throughout  Europe  and  America.  He  died  March  7th,  1879. 

BYRON. 

George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron,  the  poet  of  intensity  and  passion,  was  born  at  Dover  on  the  22d  of  Jan- 
uary, 1788.  His  constitution  was  naturally  weak,  and  there  was  a slight  malformation  of  one  of  his  fees 
which  to  one  of  his  sensitive  nature  was  a constant  cause  of  mental  anguish.  His  boyhood  was  spent  among: 
the  Scottish  hills,  and  as  he  was  naturally  of  a brave  disposition  and  a lover  of  manly  sports,  his  constitution 
became  greatly  strengthened.  Still  the  fiery  and  restless  spirit  was  too  much  for  the  body  which  contained! 
it,  and  dissipation  and  recklessness  carried  him  off  prematurely. 

Byron  in  youth  was  disappointed  in  love,  and  the  effect  of  his  unreturned  passion  clung  to  him  througls 
life.  On  the  2d  of  January,  1815,  he  married  Miss  Milbank,  by  whom  he  had  a daughter — the  Ada  of  his 
Chikle  Harold — but  they  soon  parted  forever,  and  Byron  left  England  in  the  spring  of  1816,  never  again  to 
return.  In  Italy  he  plunged  into  dissipation,  but  a better  spirit  wras  at  work  within  him,  and  he  left  Italy  for 
the  purpose  of  assisting  Greece  in  her  endeavor  to  free  herself  from  the  hated  rule  of  the  Turk.  He  reached 
Greece,  but  died  shortly  afterwards,  being  carried  off  by  a fever  at  Missolonghi  on  the  19th  of  April,  1824- 

BYROM. 

*J6hn  Byrom  was  born  in  1691,  near  Manchester,  England.  He  was  admitted  a pensioner  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  took  his  degree  of  B.  A.  1711.  He  travelled  for  some  time  ira 
France,  and  upon  his  return  home  he  married  his  cousin,  which  incensed  his  father  and  uncle,  and  the  young, 
couple  were  thrown  upon  their  own  resources  for  a livelihood.  Byrom  then  gave  lessons  in  stenography.  By 
his  brother’s  death  he  came  into  possession  of  the  family  estate,  and  the  remainder  of  his  days  was  spent  in; 
the  enjoyment  of  competence.  It  is  said  that  Byrom  always  found  it  easier  to  express  his  thoughts  in  verse* 
than  in  prose.  He  died  in  1763. 

CAMPBELL. 

Thomas  Campbell,  born  in  1777,  was  a native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland,  and  was  educated  at  the  university" 
of  that  city,  where  he  was  distinguished  for  his  proficiency  in  classical  studies.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two  he 
published  his  world-famed  poem,  “The  Pleasures  of  Hope.”  Campbell  then  visited  the  continent,  and  from 
the  monastery  of  St.  Jacob  witnessed  the  battle  of  Hohenlinden,  December  3d,  1800.  His  poem  ,written  ini 
commemoration  of  the  dreadful  spectacle  will  never  be  forgotten.  In  1803  he  was  married  to  Miss  Martha 
Sinclair,  of  Edinburgh.  He  died  June  15th,  1844,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

CARY. 

Alice  Cary  was  born  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in  1820.  She  contributed  for  several  years  to  Westenr1 
periodicals,  before  the  first  collection  of  her  poems,  which  appeared  in  Philadelphia  in  1849.  Besides  other 
volumes  of  poems  she  published  several  romances  and  novels.  She  died  February  12th,  1871. 

Phcebe  Cary,  sister  of  Alice  Cary,  was  born  in  1825.  Besides  poems  published  in  conjunction  with  hew 
sister,  she  published  a volume  entitled  “ Poems  and  Parodies”  in  1854. 

Henry  Carey,  a humorous  poet  and  musical  composer,  was  born  toward  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cera- 
tury  and  died  in  1743.  He  published  essays,  poems  and  dramas. 

CARLETON. 

Will  Carleton,  author  of  “ Farm  Ballads,”  etc.,  was  born  in  Hudson,  Michigan,  in  1845.  His 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


father  was  a pioneer  settler  from  New  Hampshire.  For  four  years  of  his  youth  he  divided  his  time  between 
attending  school,  teaching  and  assisting  his  father  on  the  farm.  He  was  graduated  from  Hillside  College, 
Mich.,  in  1869.  Since  then  he  has  been  engaged  in  literary  and  journalistic  work  and  in  lecturing,  in  1872 
appeared  his  ballad  of  “ Betsy  and  I are  out,”  which  was  reprinted  with  illustrations  in  Harper's  Weekly  and 
gave  the  author  an  extended  reputation.  His  “ Farm  Ballads”  and  “ Farm  Legends,”  published  by  Harper 
& Brothers,  attained  great  popularity. 

CARLYLE. 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  on  the  4th  of  December,  1795,  in  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland.  Although  his 
parents  were  poor,  they  were  bent  upon  giving  him  a good  education  as  a preparation  for  the  ministry,  for 
which  they  had  intended  him.  He  was  accordingly  sent  to  Edinburgh  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  where  he 
devoted  himself  to  close  study.  But,  although  naturally  of  a religious  turn  of  mind,  he  became  convinced 
that  he  was  not  adapted  for  the  ministry.  He  betook  himself  to  literature  as  a profession,  and  after  many 
struggles  and  severe'  hardships  succeeded  in  being  looked  up  to  by  many  as  the  first  writer  of  his  day.  He 
died  on  the  5th  of  February,  1881. 

CHATHAM. 

Right  Hon.  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  was  born  in  1708.  He  studied  at  Eton  and  Trinity 
Colleges,  Oxford.  He  became  member  of  Parliament  in  1736.  Here  his  distinguished  political  ability  and 
his  oratorical  power  drew  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon  him.  He  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest  statesmen 
and  orators  that  have  ever  lived.  He  died  in  1788. 

CHOATE. 

Rufus  Choate,  the  great  American  advocate,  was  born  in  Essex,  Massachusetts,  in  1799.  He  graduated 
at  Dartmouth  College  in  1819,  studied  a few  months  in  the  Cambridge  Law  School,  and  went  to  Washing- 
ton, where  he  was  for  about  a year  in  the  office  of  William  Wirt.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1824,  and 
began  to  practise  law  in  Danvers,  Massachusetts,  but  soon  removed  to  Salem.  In  1832  he  was  elected  to  the 
United  States  House  of  Representatives.  In  1841  he  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate  in  place  of 
Mr.  Webster,  who  had  entered  the  Cabinet.  Worn  down  by  overwork,  he  embarked  for  Europe  in  July, 
1859,  but  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  steamer  at  Halifax,  where  he  died  soon  after  his  arrival. 

CLARKE. 

James  Freeman  Clarke,  D.  D.,  was  born  at  Hanover,  New  Hampshire,  April  4th,  1810.  He  gradu- 
ated from  the  Cambridge  Divinity  School  in  1833,  and  had  charge  of  a Unitarian  church  at  Louisville,  Ken- 
tucky, from  1833  to  1841.  In  1841  he  became  pastor  of  the  Church  of  the  Disciples,  Boston,  which  posi- 
tion he  still  retains.  Besides  numerous  contributions  to  periodical  literature,  he  translated  De  Wette’s 
“ Theodore,”  1840.  He  has  since  published  many  valuable  theological  works. 

COLERIDGE. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  Ottery  Saint  Mary,  a town  of  Devonshire,  in  1773.  His  father, 
the  Rev.  John  Coleridge,  was  vicar  there,  and  is  said  to  have  been  a person  of  considerable  learning.  Cole- 
ridge was  educated  at  Christ’s  Hospital  School,  London.  At  an  early  age  he  became  proficient  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  Greek,  Roman  and  English  classics.  Theology  and  metaphysics  possessed  for  him,  how- 
ever, the  greatest  charm.  He  subsequently  devoted  his  attention  to  poetry  and  produced  some  of  the  finest 
poems  in  our  language.  His  philosophical  writings  are  also  held  in  the  highest  esteem.  Coleridge  married 
.Miss  Sarah  Fricker  in  1795,  and  the  following  year  his  eldest  son,  Hartley,  was  born,  who,  like  his  father, 
<was  also  a poet.  In  the  latter  years  of  Coleridge’s  life  he  received  an  annuity  of  ^100  per  annum  from  the 
government.  He  died  on  the  25th  of  July,  1834. 

COLLINS. 

William  Collins  was  born  at  Chichester,  England,  on  Christmas  Day,  1720.  He  was  acquainted  not 
only  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages,  but  also  with  the  Italian,  French  and  Spanish  languages,  the 
literature  of  fiction  being  that  in  which  he  most  delighted.  In  his  later  years  his  mind  gave  way,  and  he  was 
confined  in  a house  for  lunatics.  He  died  in  1756. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


3 77 


COLLYER. 

Robert  Collyer  was  born  at  Keighly,  Yorkshire,  December  8th,  1823.  His  early  years  were  passed  at 
a factory  and  at  a forge,  but  he  spent  all  his  spare  time  in  study.  In  1847  he  went  to  the  United  States  and 
became  a Methodist  preacher,  working  at  the  same  time  at  his  trade  of  blacksmith  at  Shoemakerstown,  Penn- 
sylvania. His  views  changing  towards  Unitarianism,  he  was  brought  up  for  heresy  and  refused  a license  to 
preach.  Entering  the  Unitarian  Church  he  was  settled  over  the  Unity  Church,  Chicago,  from  1859  to  1879, 
and  since  then  he  has  had  charge  of  the  Church  of  the  Messiah  at  New  York. 

COWPER. 

William  Cowper,  born  in  1731,  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  John  Cowper,  chaplain  to  George  II.  and  rector 
of  Berkhampstead,  Hertfordshire,  at  which  place  the  eminent  poet  was  born.  Cowper  was  of  a timid  and 
sensitive  nature,  and  his  life  at  school  was  to  him  intolerable  on  account  of  rough  usage  by  other  boys.  He 
afterwards  engaged  to  study  law,  but  instead  spent  his  time  in  trifling.  He  was  subject  to  fits  of  depression 
and,  indeed,  to  fits  of  insanity,  in  which  he  attempted  suicide.  He  died  on  the  25th  of  April,  1800. 

CUNNINGHAM. 

Allan  Cunningham,  born  in  1785,  a native  of  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  was  the  son  of  a gardener.  He 
was  apprenticed  to  his  uncle,  a country  mason,  but  feeling  dissatisfied  with  this  position,  he  removed  in  1810 
to  London,  where  he  became  connected  with  the  newspaper  press.  In  1814  he  became  clerk  and  overseer  of 
the  establishment  of  the  celebrated  sculptor,  Sir  Francis  Chantrey.  His  leisure  hours  he  devoted  to  literary 
pursuits.  He  died  in  1842. 

DE  QUINCEY. 

Thomas  De  Quincey,  “The  English  Opium-Eater,”  was  born  in  Manchester,  1786,  and  was  educated  at 
Eton  and  Oxford.  The  sufferings  of  his  youth  drove  him  to  the  taking  of  opium  as  a relief  for  pain.  This 
soon  grew  into  a habit,  from  which  he  never  altogether  freed  himself;  although  his  efforts  to  do  so  were  most 
heroic.  His  writings  show  a vast  range  of  study,  and  no  writer  in  the  English  language  surpasses  him  in 
beauty  of  style,  or  its  artistic  character.  -He  died  at  Lasswade,  near  Edinburgh,  in  1859. 

DIBDIN. 

Charles  Dibdin,  famous  as  an  actor  and  dramatist,  and  still  more  so  as  a composer  of  sea-songs,  was- 
born  in  1745.  He  published  “A  Complete  History  of  the  English  Stage,”  in  five  volumes.  Among  other 
publications,  forty-seven  dramatic  pieces  are  traced  to  his  hand.  His  sea-songs  amount  to  nearly  twelve  hun- 
dred in  number.  His  brother  was  Captain  Thomas  Dibdin,  celebrated  by  our  poet  as 

“ Poor  Tom  Bowling,  the  darling  of  our  crew.” 

Dibdin  had  two  sons,  who  were  also  dramatic  poets  and  song- writers ; one  (Thomas)  who  composed  more 
than  one  thousand  songs.  His  nephew  (son  of  Captain  Thomas,  above  mentioned)  was  also  celebrated  as 
an  author.  Dibdin  died  in  1814. 

DICKENS. 

Charles  Dickens,  the  celebrated  novelist,  was  born  at  Landport,  Portsmouth,  England,  in  1812.  His 
father,  John  Dickens,  intended  that  he  should  study  law;  but  this  being  distasteful  to  Charles,  he  obtained 
his  father’s  consent  to  “join  the  parliamentary  corps  of  a daily  newspaper.”  During  his  connection  with  the 
Morning  Chronicle  he  published  “ Sketches  of  Life  and  Character,”  which  brought  him  at  once  into  notice. 
Then  came  the  “ Pickwick  Papers,”  and  Dickens  was  soon  one  of  the  most  popular  of  writers.  Pie  visited 
America  twice.  His  books  touching  upon  his  first  visit  were  not  agreeable  to  his  American  readers ; but  his 
second  visit  swept  away  all  dissatisfaction.  Dickens  died  suddenly  in  1870,  leaving  his  last  novel  unfinished. 

DODDRIDGE. 

Philip  Doddridge  was  the  twentieth  child  of  a London  merchant,  and  lost  both  of  his  parents  at  an  early 


37» 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


age.  He  was  born  in  1702.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  visited  the  poor,  and  calied  their  attention  to  the 
subject  of  personal  religion,  and  commenced  keeping  a diary,  in  which  he  “ accounted  for  every  hour  of  his 
time.”  In  his  twentieth  year  he  commenced  preaching  to  a small  congregation  at  Kibwork.  He  subse- 
quently published  many  excellent  religious  works.  He  died  at  Lisbon  in  1751. 

FINLAY. 

John  Finlay,  a modern  Scotch  poet,  was  born  at  Glasgow  in  1782.  He  was  the  author  of  “Wallace  of 
Elierslie,”  a “ Life  of  Cervantes,”  and  the  edition  of  “A  Collection  of  Scottish  Ballads,  Historical  and  Ro- 
mantic.” He  died  in  1810. 

FLETCHER. 

Phineas  Fletcher  was  born  about  1582.  In  1621  he  obtained  the  living  of  Hilgay  in  Norfolk,  where 
fie  died  in  1650.  He  is  best  known  by  a poem  entitled  “ The  Purple  Island,”  which  is  an  allegorical  descrip- 
don  of  man,  in  twelve  books,  written  in  Spenserian  verse. 

FRANKLIN. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  whose  name  must  ever  be  held  in  the  highest  honor  by  the  American  people,  was 
iiorn  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  on  January  17th,  1706.  At  the  age  of  eight  years  he  was  sent  to  a grammar 
•school.  At  ten  years  of  age  he  was  set  to  candle-making,  but  this  was  very  distasteful  to  the  youthful  phi- 
losopher. His  father  then  bound  him  apprentice  to  his  brother  James,  who  had  established  a printing  press 
in  Boston.  The  ill-treatment  of  his  brother  induced  him  to  remove  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  obtained  em- 
ployment with  a printer  named  Keiner.  To  give  but  a faint  idea  of  Franklin’s  services  to  his  country,  as  a 
statesman  and  a soldier,  would  reach  far  beyond  the  limits  of  our  space,  but  happily  the  history  of  them  lies 
within  the  reach  of  all.  He  died  of  a disease  of  the  lungs,  after  a short  illness,  on  the  17th  of  April,  1790. 

GILBERT. 

William  Schenck  Gilbert,  B.  A.,  was  born  November  18th,  1836,  at  17  Southampton  street,  Strand, 
ILondon,  and  educated  at  Great  Ealing  School.  He  took  the  degree  of  B.  A.  at  the  University  of  London, 
;and  was  called  to  the  bar  of  the  Inner  Temple  in  November,  1864.  He  was  Clerk  in  the  Privy  Council 
•Office  from  1857  to  1862,  and  was  appointed  captain  of  the  Royal  Aberdeenshire  Highlanders  (Militia)  in 
u868.  Mr.  Gilbert  is  well  known  as  a dramatic  author  and  contributor  to  periodical  literature.  His  latest 
• operas,  which  have  proved  so  eminently  successful,  viz.,  “ Pinafore,”  “ The  Pirates  of  .Penzance  ” and 

Patience,”  were  written  in  conjunction  with  Dr.  Arthur  Sullivan. 

GOETHE. 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe,  the  greatest  poet  of  Germany,  was  born  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  Au- 
gust 28th,  1749.  Drawing,  music,  natural  science,  the  elements  of  jurisprudence,  and  the  languages  occupied 
Iiis  early  years,  and  when  he  was  fifteen  he  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Leipsic,  but  did  not  follow  any  reg- 
ular course  of  studies.  In  1768  he  quitted  Leipsic,  and  subsequently  went  to  the  University  of  Strasburg  to 
qualify  himself  for  the  law ; but  he  paid  more  attention  to  chemistry  and  anatomy  than  to  his  nominal  pur- 
suit. In  1786  he  made  a journey  to  Italy,  where  he  remained  two  years,  visited  Sicily,  and  remained  a long 
time  in  Rome.  In  1807  he  received  the  order  of  Alexander-Newsky  from  Alexander  of  Russia,  and  the 
•grand  cross  of  the  legion  of  honor  from  Napoleon.  Pie  died  at  Weimar,  March  22d,  1832,  aged  eighty- 
two.  Goethe  was  an  intellectual  giant,  and  his  works  are  among  the  greatest  ever  produced. 

GOLDSMITH. 

Few  more  pleasing  writers  have  lived  than  Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  was  born  in  Leinster,  Ireland,  on  No- 
vember 10th,  1728.  At  the  age  of  six  years  Oliver  was  placed  under  charge  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  a 
retired  quartermaster  of  an  Irish  regiment.  In  1745  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  In  1749  was 
<made  Bachelor  of  Arts.  He  was  induced  to  apply  for  admission  into  the  ministry,  for  which  he  was  not  at 
all  suited.  Indeed,  there  was  something  ludicrous  about  his  very  rejection ; one  account  giving  the  reason 
because  of  his  application  for  holy  orders  “ in  a pair  of  scarlet  breeches.”  In  1755  undertook  to  travel 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


379 


through  Europe  with  “a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  a shirt  on  his  back,  and  a flute  in  his  hand.”  Upon  his  return 
to  England  Goldsmith  earned  a scanty  subsistence  as  a hack  writer,  yet  some  of  our  sweetest  poems  also 
emanated  from  his  pen.  He  died  on  April  4th,  1774. 

GRAY. 

Thomas  Gray  was  born  in  London  on  the  26th  of  December,  1716.  It  is  said  that  when  a young  man 
at  college  his  fellow-students  used  to  call  him  Miss  Gray  on  account  of  the  delicacy  of  his  manners,  his 
effeminacy  and  his  fair  complexion.  His  natural  sensibility  inclined  him  strongly  to  the  muses,  and  his 
poems  betray  careful  and  delicate  finish.  He  died  on  the  31st  of  May,  1 77 1. 

HALE. 

Mrs.  Sarah  Josepha  Hale,  formerly  Miss  Buell,  and  widow  of  David  Hale,  a distinguished  lawyer,  who 
died  at  an  early  age  in  1822.  In  1828  Mrs.  Hale  became  the  editor  of  The  Ladies'  Magazine , published  at 
Boston,  and  dischaiged  the  duties  of  this  responsible  position  until  1837,  when  this  periodical  was  united  with 
the  Lady's  Book  of  Philadelphia. 

HALLECK. 

Fitzgreene  Halleck  was  born  at  Guilford,  Connecticut,  in  August,  1795.  He/entered  a banking  house 
in  New  York  in  1813,  and  resided  in  that  city;  engaged  in  mercantile  and  kindred  pursuits  until  1849,  when 
he  returned  to  his  native  town  in  Connecticut.  For  many  years  he  acted  as  confidential  agent  for  John  Jacob 
Astor.  Halleck  commenced  contributing  to  the  papers  of  the  day  at  an  early  age.  In  1819  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  author  of  “The  Culprit  Fay,”  “The  American  Flag,”  and  other 
well-known  poems,  and  produced  in  conjunction  with  him  the  “Croker  Papers,”  published  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  1819.  In  1822-23  he  visited  Europe,  and  the  scenery  of  his  travels  suggested  to  him  some 
of  his  finest  poems.  He  died  in  1807,  at  Guilford,  Conn. 

HARTE. 

Francis  Bret  Harte  was  born  at  Albany,  New  York,  August  25th,  1839.  He  went  to  California  in 
1854,  and  was  successively  a miner,  school-teacher,  express  messenger,  printer,  and  finally  editor  of  a news- 
paper. In  1864  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  the  United  States  Branch  Mint  at  San  Francisco,  holding  the 
office  until  1870.  In  1868,  upon  the  establishment  of  the  Overland  Monthly,  he  became  its  editor.  In  1869 
appeared  in  it  his  humorous  poem,  “ The  Heathen  Chinee,”  which  at  once  made  him  famous.  He  was  ap- 
pointed United  States  Consul  at  Crefield  in  1878,  from  which  he  was  transferred  to  Glasgow  in  March,  1880, 
where  he  still  remains. 

/ HAWTHORNE. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  about  1807,  and  graduated  at  Bowdoin  Col- 
lege, Maine,  in  1825.  In  1846  he  received  the  appointment  of  Surveyor  in  the  Custom  House  at  Salem, 
which  post  he  retained  for  about  a twelvemonth,  but  a change  of  administration  forced  him  to  vacate  the  office. 
In  1853  Hawthorne  was  appointed  by  President  Pierce  American  Consul  at  Liverpool.  Hawthorne  was  one 
of  the  greatest  novelists  and  writers  of  short  stories  which  our  country  has  produced.  There  is  a weird  in- 
tensity in  his  romances  which  acts  like  a spell  upon  the  reader  and  forbids  him  laying  down  the  book  until 
the  story  is  finished.  Hawthorne  died  in  May,  1864,  at  Plymouth,  N.  H. 

HEINE. 

Heinrich  Heine,  a Gejrman  poet  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born  at  Dusseldorf,  1797,  and  studied  at 
Bonn,  Gottingen  and  Berlin,  with  the  view  of  embracing  a legal  career;  but  his  temper  rendered  a residence 
in  Germany  distasteful,  and  he  repaired  to  Paris  about  1820,  where  he  continued  thenceforward  principally  to 
reside.  His  works  comprise  two  plays,  political  pamphlets  and  satires,  views  of  French  society,  etc.,  but  his 
fame  chiefly  depends  on  his  poems,  which,  though  often  deformed  by  a spirit  of  raillery  and  satire  that  knows 
no  bounds,  are  full  of  grace,  tenderness  and  artless  ease.  He  died  in  1856. 


380 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES . 


HEMANS. 

Mrs.  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  was  a native  of  Liverpool.  She  was  born  in  1794.  She  printed  a vol- 
ume of  poems  before  she  was  fifteen  years  of  age.  In  1812  she  was  married  to  Captain  Hemans,  of  the 
Fourth  Regiment.  In  1818  Captain  Hemans  removed  to  Italy,  avowedly  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  leav- 
ing his  wife  and  five  sons.  She  never  saw  him  again— he  in  whom  she  had  so  greatly  confided  having  basely 
deserted  her.  There  is  no  poetry  more  sweet  and  womanly  than  that  of  Mrs.  Hemans.  She  died  in  1835. 

HERBERT. 

George  Herbert,  a descendant  of  the  Earls  of  Pembroke,  was  born  at  Montgomery  Castle,  in  Wales,  in 
1593.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and  there  elected  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  of  which 
he  was  elected  P'ellow.  In  1630  he  was  presented  by  King  Charles  I.  to  the  living  of  Bemerton.  He  died 
in  1632. 

HOLMES. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  M.  D.,  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  August  29th,  1809.  He 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1829;  began  the  study  of  law,  which  he  abandoned  for  that  of  medicine. 
Having  attended  the  hospitals  of  Paris  and  other  European  cities,  he  commenced  practice  in  Boston  in  1836. 
In  1838  he  was  elected  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  Dartmouth  College,  and  in  1847  was  ap- 
pointed to  a similar  professorship  in  the  Massachusetts  Medical  School,  from  which  he  retired  in  1882.  Not 
only  has  he  been  distinguished  in  purely  medical  literature,  but  as  a writer  of  songs,  lyrics  and  poems  for 
festive  occasions  he  occupies  the  first  place. 

HOOD. 

Thomas  Hood,  the  famous  humorist,  was  born  in  London  in  1798.  He  was  apprenticed  to  the  engraving 
business,  but  finally  adopted  the  anxious  life  and  depended  upon  the  uncertain  gains  of  a London  man-of-let- 
ters  at  large.  In  1821  he  became  sub-editor  of  the  London  Magazine,  was  subsequently  a contributor  to 
Punch , editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  for  one  year  editor  of  the  Gem.  About  a year  before  his 
death  a pension  of  ^150  per  annum  was  granted  by  government  to  his  wife.  Hood  died  in  1845.  Before 
he  died  he  said  that  his  epitaph  ought  to  be : “ Here  lies  the  man  who  spat  more  blood  and  made  more  puns 
than  any  other.”  \ 

HUNT. 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt,  born  October  19,  1784,  at  Southgate,  Middlesex,  was  the  son  of  the  Rev. 
Isaac  Hunt  and  Miss  Mary  Shewell,  the  daughter  of  Stephen  Shewed,  a merchant  of  Philadelphia.  An  aunt 
of  this  lady  was  the  wife  of  Benjamin  West,  the  eminent  American  painter.  Young  Hunt  commenced  author- 
ship at  an  early  period,  and  when  the  poet  was  only  about  sixteen  years  of  age  his  father  collected  his  verses 
and  published  them  in  1801.  Hunt  united  in  1808  with  his  brother  John  in  the  establishment  of  a weekly 
paper  entitled  The  Examiner.  In  1847  Hunt  received  a pension  of  £100  per  annum.  He  died  in  1859. 

IRVING. 

Washington  Irving  was  born  April  3d,  1783,  in  the  city  of  New  York.  His  father  was  a native  of 
Scotland,  his  mother  an  Englishwoman,  and  some  have  fancied  that  the  national  characteristics  of  both 
parents  may  be  discerned  in  his  writings.  Irving  engaged  in  the  study  of  law,  but  the  state  of  his  health 
caused  him  in  1804  to  seek  for  that  physical  benefit  which  a change  of  scene  and  climate  might  be  expected 
to  afford.  After  an  absence  of  two  years  in  Italy,  Switzerland,  France,  England,  etc.,  he  returned  home  in 
1806,  resumed  his  legal  studies,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  Between  the  years  1815  and  1832  Irving 
travelled  very  extensively  both  in  the  interests  of  literature  and  business.  Shortly  after  his  return  to  his 
native  land,  in  1832,  he  visited  the  great  West,  and  published  the  fruits  of  his  researches  among  the  Indians, 
in  the  Crayon  Miscellany  in  1835.  He  died  in  1859. 

JEFFERSON. 

The  illustrious  Thomas  Jefferson  was  born  on  April  2d,  1743,  ill  Shadwell,  Albemarle  county,  Virginia. 
It  is  almost  needless  to  dwell  upon  the  particulars  of  this  great  man’s  life.  His  authorship  of  the  “ Declara- 
tion of  Independence  ” would  alone  have  sufficed  to  render  his  name  immortal.  He  died  on  the  same  day 
as  John  Adams — the  4th  of  July,  1826. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


38r 


JERROLD. 

Douglas  Tkrrold,  a native  of  Sheerness  in  Kent,  after  being  a midshipman  in  the  Royal  Navy  and  sub- 
sequently a printer,  had  his  fate  decided  for  authorship  by  the  success  of  the  drama  of  “ Black-eyed  Susan,” 
written  before  he  was  of  age.  This  piece  was  followed  by  many  other  successful  dramas.  Jerrold  was  also 
a contributor  to  Punch , in  which  his  celebrated  “Caudle  Lectures”  were  published.  He  was  born  in  1805I 
and  died  in  1857. 

JONES. 

Sir  William  Jones,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  learned  men  that  ever  lived,  was  a native  of  Lon- 
don and  born  on  September  28th,  1746.  His  father  was  a very  eminent  mathematician  and  the  friend  of 
Halley,  and  Sir  Isaac  Newton.  His  mother  was  also  noted  for  her  learning,  accomplishments  and  virtues,, 
and  it  was  to  her  sole  charge  that  William  Jones  was  left,  by  the  decease  of  his  father,  when  he  had  scarcely 
reached  his  third  year.  He  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1774.  In  1783  he  was  knighted,  and 
about  the  same  time  he  was  married  to  Anna  Maria  Shipley,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph. 
The  same  year  he  and  his  wife  embarked  for  India.  Lady  Jones  was  compelled  by  ill-health  to  return  to 
England  in  1793,  and  Sir  William  had  intended  to  return  to  England  also  in  1795,  but  this  was  not  to  be. 
In  April,  1794,  after  a week’s  illness,  he  died.  Of  our  author  T.  Campbell,  the  poet,  has  said  that  “ in  the 
course  of  a short  life  Sir  William  Jones  acquired  a degree  of  knowledge  which  the  ordinary  faculties  of  men,, 
if  they  were  blessed  with  antediluvian  longevity,  could  scarcely  hope  to  surpass.”  Sir  William,  indeed,, 
opened  up  a new  world  of  knowledge  to  the  mind  of  the  West  by  his  Asiatic  researches,  and  his  character 
was  no  less  noble  than  his  learning  was  vast. 

KEATS. 

Perhaps  no  poet  gave  so  much  promise  of  greatness  when  called  away  from  the  world  as  John  Keats.  Ho 
was  born  in  Moorfield,  London,  October  29th,  1796,  and  died  in  Rome  on  the  24th  of  February,  1821.  His 
health  was  always  delicate,  for  he  had  been  a seven  months’  child.  Consumption  was  the  immediate  cause 
of  his  death,  but  which  was  aggravated  by  his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  criticism,  and  in  his  own  day  criticism 
dealt  harshly  with  him.  The  greatest  names  in  our  language  have,  however,  no  equal  works  to  show  as 
having  been  written  at  the  same  age  in  which  Keats  gave  his  to  the  world. 

KNOX. 

William  Knox,  the  author  of  the  verses  on  Mortality,  the  favorite  poem  of  President  Lincoln,  “ Oh,  why 
should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  proud,”  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Lillieleaf,  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  on 
August  17th,  1789.  He  was  educated  there  and  at  Musselburgh  Grammar  School.  He  took  a farm  near 
Langholm,  but  was  unsuccessful,  and  then  adopted  literature  as  a profession.  The  names  of  the  poetical 
volumes  published  by  him  are  “The  Lonely  Hearth,”  “Songs  of  Israel”  and  “ Harp  of  Zion.”  He  died 
November  12th,  1825. 

LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb,  born  February  18th,  1775,  was  a native  of  London.  After  an  early  education  at  the 
school  of  Christ’s  Hospital  and  a brief  engagement  in  the  South  Sea  House  under  his  brother  John,  Charles 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  a permanent  situation  in  the  accountant’s  office  of  the  East  India  Company, 
which  he  held  from  April,  1792,  until  March,  1825,  retiring  on  a pension  of  ^450  per  annum.  His  sister, 
Mary,  in  a fit  of  insanity,  in  the  month  of  September,  1796,  suddenly  deprived  her  mother  of  life,  and  she 
was  confided  to  the  care  of  Charles  for  safe-keeping.  The  manner  in  which  he  fulfilled  his  charge  is  to  his 
everlasting  honor.  He  had  contemplated  marriage  with  one  to  whom  he  was  deeply  attached,  but  abandoned 
his  intention  and  nerved  himself  to  the  discharge  of  his  fraternal  and  filial  duties.  His  father  soon  followed 
the  mother  to  the  grave.  Lamb  died  December  27th,  1834.  His  sister  survived  him  thirteen  years.  She 
was  ten  years  his  senior. 

LEVER. 

Charles  James  Lever,  M.  D.,  the  popular  novelist,  was  born  in  Dublin,  August  31st,  1806;  wag  edu- 
cated at  Gottingen,  practised  medicine  with  great  success  in  the  north  of  Ireland  during  the  cholera  season 


382 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


of  1832,  was  subsequently  nominated  to  the  post  of  Physician  to  the  British  Embassy  at  Brussels,  and  filled 
this  office  for  three  years.  In  1845  he  removed  to  Florence.  He  died  in  1872. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  the  most  illustrious  of  American  poets,  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine, 
February  27th,  1807.  He  was  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1825,  in  the  same  class  with  Hawthorne. 
He  was  appointed  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  1826,  then  passed  four  years  in  Europe,  and  on  his 
^return  commenced  the  duties  of  his  chair.  In  1835  he  succeeded  George  Ticknor  in  the  chair  of  Belles 
Lettres  at  Harvard,  when  he  again  visited  Europe.  He  gave  up  his  professorship  in  1854  and  devoted  him- 
self exclusively  to  literature.  He  died  in  1882. 

LOVELACE. 

Richard  Lovelace,  the  cavalier  poet,  was  born  in  1618,  at  Kent,  England.  In  the  civil  war  he  em- 
braced the  royal  cause.  Subsequently  he  formed  a regiment  for  the  service  of  the  French  king,  and  was 
wounded  at  Dunkirk.  In  1648  he  returned  to  England,  and  was  imprisoned  until  after  the  king’s  death.  He 
died  in  Gunpowder  Alley,  near  Shoe  Lane,  in  1658. 

LOWELL. 

James  Russell  Lowell,  LL.  D.,  D.  C.  L.,  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  February  22d,  1819. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1838,  and  studied  law,  but  soon  abandoned  law  for  literature.  In  1855 
he  succeeded  Longfellow  as  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  and  Belles  Lettres  in  Harvard  College.  To- 
wards the  close  of  1874  he  was  offered  the  post  of  Minister  to  Russia,  which  he  declined,  but  in  1877  ac- 
cepted that  of  Minister  to  Spain,  from  which  he  was  transferred  in  January,  1880,  to  that  of  Minister  to 
Great  Britain. 

LYTE. 

Henry  Francis  Lyte  was  born  in  Ednan,  Scotland,  the  birthplace  of  the  poet  Thomson,  in  1793.  He 
■entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  on  three  occasions  carried  off  the  prize  for  English  poetry.  He  settled 
as  a clergyman  in  Devonshire,  where  he  labored  for  twenty  years.  He  died  in  1847,  his  hymn  “Abide  with 
Me  ” being  written  the  same  year  in  view  of  his  approaching  death. 

LORD  LYTTON. 

Edward  G.  L.  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton,  was  born  in  1805.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge, 
where  he  graduated  B.  A.  in  1826  and  M.  A.  in  1835.  He  was  elected  member  of  Parliament  in  1832,  and 
represented  the  Radical  party  there  until  1841.  He  again  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1852. 
In  December,  1856,  he  was  elected  Lord-Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow.  In  1827  Bulwer  married  an 
Irish  lady  of  great  literary  ability,  but  they  subsequently  separated.  Bulwer  commenced  authorship  at  the 
rather  juvenile  age  of  six  years,  and  until  his  latest  years  his  pen  was  most  prolific.  He  has  shown  more 
versatility  than  any  other  writer  of  his  day.  He  died  in  1873. 

MILNES. 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  Lord  Houghton,  was  born  in  1809.  He  graduated  M.  A.  at  Trinity  Col 
lege,  Cambridge,  in  1831,  was  returned  for  Pontefract  in  1837,  and  in  1851  was  married  to  the  Hon.  Ara- 
bella Hungerford,  youngest  daughter  of  the  second  Baron  Crewe. 

MILTON. 

The  most  sublime  of  English  poets  was  born  on  the  9th  of  December,  1608.  From  his  twelfth  year  to 
early  manhood  he  commonly  continued  his  studies  till  midnight  in  spite  of  injury  to  his  eyes  and  frequent 
headaches.  This  spirit  characterized  Milton  throughout  his  whole  life.  When  a young  man,  whilst  travel- 
ling in  Italy,  he  visited  Galileo,  who  was  then  a prisoner  to  the  inquisition.  Instead  of  continuing  his  travels, 
as  he  had  intended,  he  returned  to  England  upon  the  news  of  a civil  war  between  the  king  and  Parliament. 
He  wrote  a “ Defence  of  the  People  of  England,”  but  his  labors  in  behalf  of  liberty  resulted  in  total  blindness. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


During  his  blindness  he  composed  the  greatest  poem  in  the  English  language — “ Paradise  Lost.”  He  died 
November,  1674,  in  the  sixty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

MOORE. 

Thomas  Moore  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the  light  in  Dublin,  May  28th,  1779.  Moore  commenced  versi- 
fying at  a very  early  age.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  forwarded  some  poems  to  the  editor  of  the  Anthologia 
Hibernica , and  being  doubtful  about  letting  his  name  be  known,  merely  signed  himself  Th-m-s  M — re. 
Possibly  he  thought  that  the  editor  would  be  puzzled  as  to  what  name  could  be  made  of  that  signature.  In 
the  summer  of  1794  Moore  was  entered  at  Trinity  College,  and  took  his  degree  of  B.  A.  in  1798  or  1799. 
In  1803  he  visited  America,  returning  to  England  in  1804.  In  1811  he  married.  In  1835  he  received  a 
pension  from  the  government  of  ^300  per  annum.  For  about  three  years  before  his  death  he  was  reduced 
by  softening  of  the  brain  to  mental  incapacity.  He  died  February  25th,  1852. 

MORRIS. 

George  P.  Morris,  a lyric  poet  and  journalist,  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  1802.  In  1823  he  assisted  in 
starting  the  New  York  Mirror , with  which  he  continued  associated  until  its  discontinuance  in  1842.  In  1843 
he  joined  N.  P.  Willis  in  the  New  Mirror , and  in  the  following  year  commenced  the  Evening  Mirror. 
Subsequently  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Home  Journal,  which  he  remained  until  his  death,  which 
occurred  in  1864. 

POE. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born  in  Baltimore  in  1811.  By  the  death  of  his  parents,  in  1815,  he  was  left 
with  his  brother  Henry  and  sister  Rosalie  in  a state  of  “homeless  poverty.”  Adopted  by  a kind-hearted  mer- 
chant, Mr.  Allan,  of  Baltimore,  he  was  in  1816  placed  at  a school  near  Loudon,  and  in  1822  removed  to  the 
University  of  Virginia.  He  became  a student  at  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point,  from  where  he  was 
oxpelled  for  misconduct.  Exposure  to  the  night  air,  resulting  from  the  debility  of  intoxication,  brought  on  a 
raging  fever,  of  which  he  died,  after  two  days’  illness,  at  the  Baltimore  Hospital,  October  7th,  1849. 

POLLOCK. 

Robert  Pollock  was  a native  of  Renfrewshire,  Scotland.  He  was  born  in  1799.  Pollock  was  educated 
at  the  University  of  Glasgow.  Subsequently  he  studied  theology  for  five  years  under  Dr.  Dick.  On  account 
of  his  ill-health  friends  persuaded  him  to  try  the  effects  of  the  climate  of  Italy;  but,  whilst  awaiting  sufficient 
strength  to  allow  of  embarkation,  he  died  near  Southampton,  September  15th,  1827. 

v 

POPE. 

Alexander  Pope  was  a native  of  London  and  born  May  21st,  1688.  Whilst  yet  a mere  child  he  was  t. 
•composer  of  verses,  and  throughout  his  whole  life  his  literary  industry  was  great.  As  a rule  the  lives  ol 
poets  consist  mainly  in  an  enumeration  of  their  works,  and  this  our  limits  forbid.  Pope  was  of  a feeble  con- 
stitution, deformed,  and  low  in  stature.  He  was  tricky  and  uncandid,  but  he  was  a good  son  and  a great 
genius.  He  died  May  30th,  1744. 

PRENTICE. 

George  Denison  Prentice,  poet  and  journalist,  was  born  in  Connecticut  in  1802.  He  studied  law  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  entered  on  his  career  as  an  editor  in  1828  in  the  N.  E.  IVeekly  Review  at 
Hartford.  In  1830  he  began  to  edit  in  Louisville,  Kentucky,  the  Louisville  Journal,  which  soon  became 
distinguished  for  its  wit  and  satire  even  more,  perhaps,  than  for  its  merely  political  ability.  In  1831  he  pub- 
lished a “ Life  of  Clay,”  and  adhered  to  the  fortunes  of  this  eminent  leader  and  his  party  to  the  close  of  his 
career.  He  published  numerous  fugitive  poems,  but  they  were  never  during  his  lifetime  collected  into  a 
volume.  During  the  civil  war  he  maintained  the  Union  side  with  great  ardor  and  ability.  He. died  in  1870. 

PRINGLE. 

Thomas  Pringle,  born  in  1789,  was  a native  of  Blaiklaw,  Teviotdale,  Scotland.  He  had  the  misfortune 
in  infancy  to  dislocate  his  hip-joint,  in  consequence  of  which  he  was  obliged  to  carry  crutches  for  life.  In 


384 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


1820  he  emigrated  to  South  Africa.  He  returned  to  London  in  1826,  and  in  1827  became  secretary  of  the 
Anti-Slavery  Society.  He  died  in  1834. 

PROCTOR. 

Adelaide  Ann  Proctor,  the  daughter  of  Bryan  Waller  Proctor  (Barry  Cornwall),  was  born  in  London, 
October  30th,  1825.  She  was  the  “golden-tressed  Adelaide  ” of  her  father’s  beautiful  poem  of  that  title. 
In  1851  she  became  a convert  to  and  a devout  member  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Her  zeal  in  the 
performance  of  good  works  brought  her  to  an  early  grave.  She  died  February  3d,  1864. 

Bryan  Waller  Proctor  (Barry  Cornwall)  was  born  in  1787  and  educated  at  Harrow  School.  Byron,, 
the  great  poet,  and  Sir  Robert  Peele,  the  great  statesman,  were  his  contemporaries  at  that  school.  He  subse- 
quently studied  law  and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1831.  Proctor  died  in  1874. 

READ. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read  was  born  at  Chester,  Pennsylvania,  March  12th,  1822.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
he  removed  to  Cincinnati  and  became  a pupil  of  Clevenger,  the  sculptor.  On  the  departure  of  this  artist  to- 
Europe  his  pupil  turned  his  attention  to  painting,  in  which  he  soon  acquired  a reputation.  In  1840  he  re- 
moved to  Boston,  where  he  married  and  resided  for  five  years.  In  1846  he  removed  to  Philadelphia.  He 
published  a small  volume  of  “ Poems”  in  1847,  and  a second  series  in  1848.  He  subsequently  published  a 
romance  and  an  illustrated  edition  of  his  poems.  He  visited  Italy  in  1850  and  again  in  1853  and  subsequent 
years.  Since  1858  he  resided  chiefly  at  Philadelphia  and  Cincinnati,  having  become  eminent  as  a painter 
Read  died  May  nth,  1872. 

REALF. 

Richard  Realf,  the  “ most  unhappy  man  of  men,”  was  born  in  Sussex,  England,  in  1834.  He  was  of 
humble  parentage,  his  father  being  a day-laborer  in  the  fields  and  his  sister  a domestic  servant.  He  came  to* 
the  United  States  about  the  year  1855  and  took  a conspicuous  part  in  the  Kansas  and  other  border  troubles. 
For  a time  he  was  associated  with  John  Brown  (Osawatomie  Brown)  in  Kansas.  He  was  twice  married,  and 
became  the  father  of  twins  by  his  second  wife,  but  was  made  frantic  by  the  persecutions  of  his  first  vifi^  from 
whom  he  had  been  separated  since  1872.  She  followed  him  to  Oakland,  California,  where,  to  escape  the 
misery  of  her  presence,  he  took  laudanum  and  died  in  1878. 

RUSKIN. 

John  Ruskin,  M.  A.,  art  critic,  was  born  in  London  in  February,  1819.  He  was  educated  at  Christ 
Church,  Oxford.  He  gained  the  Newdgate  prize  for  poetry  in  1839.  Subsequently  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  pictorial  art,  which  he  practised  with  success  under  Copley  Fielding  and  J.  D.  Plarding. 
A pamphlet  in  defence  of  Turner  and  the  modern  English  school  of  landscape-painting  was  his  first  effort  in 
the  cause  of  modern  art,  and  it  was  enlarged  into  a standard  work  entitled  “ Modern  Painters,”  the  first  vol- 
ume of  which  appeared  in  1843.  This  work  called  forth  the  highest  encomiums,  and  at  the  same  time  the- 
most  bitter  opposition.  Four  additional  volumes  of  “Modern  Painters”  were  subsequently  published,  the- 
last  being  in  i860.  He  has  also  published  two  great  works  on  architecture,  “ The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architec- 
ture ” and  “The  Stones  of  Venice.”  In  1872  he  devoted  ,£5,000  for  the  purpose  of  an  endowment  to 
pay  a master  of  drawing  in  the  Taylor  Galleries,  Oxford.  A collection  of  his  letters  was  published,  with  a 
preface  by  himself,  in  1880. 

SARGENT. 

Epes  Sargent  was  a native  of  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  and  was  born  in  1813.  He  attended  the  Public 
Latin  School  in  Boston  some  five  years.  In  1827  he  went  in  one  of  his  father’s  ships  to  Denmark  and  Rus- 
sia, and  a few  years  later  to  Cuba.  He  entered  Harvard  College,  but  did  not  graduate.  In  1868  he  revisited' 
Europe,  and  passed  some  time  in  England  and  the  south  of  France.  He  died  1881. 

SAXE. 

John  Godfrey  Saxe,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the  humorous  poets  of  America,  was  born  in  Highgate, 
Vermont,  in  1816,  and  was  graduated  at  Middleburg  College  in  the  class  of  1839.  After  practising  law  fo* 
a time  he  abandoned  it  for  literature,  editing  and  lecturing. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


335 


SCHILLER. 

Tohn  Christopher  Frederic  von  Schiller,  one  of  the  most  illustrious  names  in  German  literature,  was 
i>orn  at  Marbach,  in  Wirtetnberg,  in  1759.  After  having  studied  medicine  and  become  surgeon  in  a regi- 
ment, he,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  wrote  his  tragedy  of  “ The  Robbers,”  which  at  once  raised, him  to  the 
foremost  rank  among  the  dramatists  of  his  country.  It  was  performed  at  Manheim  in  1782.  He  then  de- 
voted his  talents  to  dramatic  composition,  and  subsequently  to  romance,  philosophy  and  poetry.  He  also 
undertook  the  management  of  a periodical  called  the  German  Mercury.  Not  long  after  this  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Goethe,  which  soon  ripened  into  a friendship  only  dissolved  by  death.  Schiller  died  in  1805. 

SCOTT. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh  on  the  15th  of  August,  1771,  the  same  day  which  gave  birth 
to  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Like  Byron  he  suffered  from  permanent  lameness.  His  father  designed  him  for  the 
legal  profession.  In  1792  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  but  he  subsequently  devoted  himself  to  literature.  It 
was  as  a poet  that  he  first  came  before  the  public  and  achieved  an  enviable  reputation.  But  gradually  the 
poetry  of  Byron  began  to  overshadow  all  other  poetry,  and  Scott,  finding  Byron  becoming  master  of  the  field, 
betook  himself  to  prose  fiction,  in  which  he  reigned  and  still  reigns  without  a rival.  He  died  at  Abbotsford 
on  the  2 1 st  of  September,  1832. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

William  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived,  was  baptized  in  the  Parish  Church  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  April  26th,  1564,  supposed  to  be  the  third  day  after  his  birth.  There  is  but  little  known  of  the 
facts  and  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  most  illustrious  man  that  ever  walked  our  earth.  There  has  been  much 
dispute  amongst  biographers  as  to  Shakespeare’s  occupation  before  he  became  a joint  proprietor  in  the  Black- 
friars  Theatre  about  the  year  1589.  When  he  was  a little  over  eighteen  years  old  he  was  married  to  Anne 
Hathaway,  of  the  Parish  of  Stratford,  who  was  then  in  her  twenty-sixth  year.  In  1593  he  published  his 
poem  of  “ Venus  and  Adonis,”  and  in  dedicating  it  to  Lord  Southampton  he  calls  it  “ the  first  heir  of  his  in- 
vention.” This  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the  world’s  greatest  intellect  could  not  be  styled  a precocious 
one.  It  is  supposed  that  Shakespeare  ceased  to  act  upon  the  stage  after  1603,  in  which  year  he  was  a per- 
former in  one  of  Ben  Jonson’s  plays.  He  proved  that  he  was  not  only  a great  writer,  but  a shrewd  man  of 
business.  He  engaged  in  the  business  of  agriculture,  and  purchased  the  handsomest  house  in  Stratford, 
where  he  spent  the  latest  years  of  his  life.  Were  we  to  judge  from  some  lines  in  his  sonnets,  the  profession 
if  a player  would  seem  not  to  have  been  a congenial  one  to  him.  Still  we  think  that  the  greatness  of  his 
v^nius  could  not  have  been  shdwn  in  its  fullness  except  in  his  position  as  a dramatist,  for  it  alone  could  have 
jiven  us  the  wide  range  of  character  with  which  we  are  all  familiar  combined  with  the  loftiest  poetry, 
ohakespeare  died  on  the  23d  of  April,  1616 — his  birthday,  it  is  supposed — and  was  buried  on  the  25th  at  the 
Great  Church  of  Stratford. 

SHELLEY. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  born  on  the  4th  of  August,  1792,  in  Sussex  county,  England.  Before  he  had 
completed  his  fifteenth  year  he  had  published  two  novels.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  entered  University  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  from  whence,  in  his  second  term,  he  was  expelled  upon  the  charge  of  atheism.  At  an  early 
age  he  married  a Miss  Harriet  Westbrooke,  who  was  much  younger  still  than  himself.  The  match  did  not 
turn  out  happily,  and  Mrs.  Shelley  committed  suicide  in  1816,  leaving  two  children.  Shortly  after  the  death 
©f  his  first  wife  Shelley  married  again,  and  this  time  to  a woman  of  a higher  order  of  intellect  and  with  a 
mind  more  congenial.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Godwin,  the  novelist,  and  she  herself  produced  the  won- 
derful romance,  “ Frankenstein.”  Shelley,  however,  did  not  live  long,  his  death  resulting  from  drowning  at 
Jhe  early  age  of  thirty. 

SHERIDAN. 

Right  Hon.  Richard  Brinsley  Butler  Sheridan,  M.  P.,  was  born  in  Dorset  street,  Dublin,  Septem- 
ber, 1751.  At  the  age  of  seven  he  was  sent  to  school  under  Samuel  Whyte,  the  preceptor  of  Thomas 
Moore,  the  famous  poet.  Here  he  was  pronounced  “a  most  impenetrable  dunce.”  In  1792  he  was  sent  to 
Harrow,  which  college  he  left  when  about  eighteen.  He  then,  although  unable  to  spell  English,  began 
.hanslating  from  the  Greek,  with  which  he  showed  some  familiarity;  but  the  poems  translated  were  not  of 
25 


386 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


the  purest  kind.  In  March,  1772,  he  married  an  English  actress— in  France.  In  1775  he  applied  himself  t» 
dramatic  composition.  In  1780  he  became  member  of  Parliament.  He  died  July  7th,  1816.  Sheridan  was- 
extravagant  and  careless,  and  although  he  might  have  lived  in  affluence,  his  latter  years  were  embittered  by 
debt  and  embarrassment,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  died. 

SIDNEY. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  born  November  29th,  1554,  at  Penshurst  Castle,  in  the  county  of  Kent.  At  the 
age  of  twelve  years,  whilst  at  Shrewsbury  School,  he  addressed  to  his  father  (the  President  of  Wales)  two 
epistles,  one  in  Latin,  the  other  in  French.  He  went  to  Paris  in  1572,  and  was  there  at  the  time  of  the  ter- 
rible St.  Bartholomew  massacre,  which  occurred  in  August  of  that  year.  Horrified  he  left  France  and  con- 
tinued his  travels  on  the  continent.  In  1576  he  returned  to  England,  and  six  years  later  (in  1583)  he  mar- 
ried. In  the  same  year  he  was  knighted  by  his  sovereign.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  participated  in  the  memorable 
battle  of  Tutphen,  and  was  there  fatally  wounded.  The  battle  was  fought  on  September  22d,  1586.  Sidney 
died  on  the  ensuing  17th  of  October. 

SIGOURNEY. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney,  formerly  Miss  Huntley,  born  September  1st,  1791,  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,, 
was  “ almost  from  infancy  remarkable  for  a love  of  knowledge  and  facility  in  its  acquisition.  She  read  with 
fluency  when  but  three  years  of  age,  and  at  eight  she  wrote  verses  which  attracted  attention  among  the 
acquaintances  of  her  family.”  At  the  age  of  nineteen  she  established  a female  school  at  Norwich  in  con- 
junction with  an  intimate  friend,  Miss  Ann  Maria  Hyde.  Two  years  later  she  removed  to  Hartford,  where 
she  also  taught  school.  In  1819  she  was  marrried  to  Mr.  Charles  Sigourney,  of  Hartford,  where  Mrs.  Si- 
gourney resided  until  her  death,  June  10th,  1865. 

SIMS. 

George  Robert  Sims  was  born  in  London,  September  2d,  1847,  and  educated  at  Hamwell  College  and 
afterwards  at  Bonn.  He  first  joined  the  staff  of  Fun  on  the  death  of  Tom  Hood,  the  younger,  in  1874,  and 
the  Weekly  Dispatch  the  same  year.  Since  1877  he  has  been  a contributor  to  the  Referee  under  the  pseudonym 
of  Dagonet.  He  has  produced  some  plays  which  at  the  present  day  are  very  popular,  such  as  the  “ Lights 
o’  London,”  “The  Romany  Rye,”  etc. 

SOUTHEY. 

Robert  Southey,  LL.  D.,  was  the  son  of  a linen-draper  of  Bristol,  where  he  was  born,  August  12th, 
1774.  He  was  married  to  Miss  Edith  Fricker,  of  Bristol,  November  14th,  1795,  and  on  the  same  day  started 
for  Lisbon  with  his  uncle,  who  was  chaplain  to  the  British  Factory  at  that  place.  He  returned  to  Bristol 
in  the  summer  of  1796.  About  the  year  1840  he  sank  into  a state  of  mental  imbecility,  from  which  he  never 
fully  recovered,  and  died  in  his  69th  year,  March  21st,  1843. 

SPURGEON. 

Charles  Haddon  Spurgeon  was  born  at  Kelvedon,  Essex,  June  19th,  1834.  He  was  educated  at  Col- 
chester, and  became  usher  in  a school  at  Newmarket.  At  Teversham,  a village  near  Cambridge,  under  the 
designation  of  “the  boy  preacher,”  he  delivered  his  first  sermon,  and  shortly  afterwards  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  become  pastor  at  a small  Baptist  chapel  at  Waterbeach.  Here,  while  the  chapel  was  filled,  crowds 
contented  themselves  with  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  voice  from  the  outside.  Mr.  Spurgeon  made  his  first 
appearance  before  a London  congregation,  in  1853,  with  so  much  success  that  an  enlargement  of  the  build- 
ing in  which  he  preached  became  necessary,  and  for  four  months,  whilst  the  alteration  was  going  on,  he 
^officiated  at  Exeter  Hall.  Even  from  that  large  edifice  hundreds  were  turned  away  from  the  doors.  In 
October,  1856,  a large  new  chapel  was  erected  for  him,  called  the  “ Tabernacle,”  and  which  was  publicly 
Opened  in  1861. 

STERLING. 

JOHN  Sterling  was  born  at  Bute,  Scotland,  July  20th,  1806;  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  1824; 
removed  to  Trinity  Hall,  1825;  left  the  University  without  a degree,  1827,  and  for  some  years  thereafter 
resided  in  London,  contributing  to  periodicals.  He  died  September  18th,  1844. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


3 8/ 


STODDARD. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard  was  born  at  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  in  July,  1825.  His  family  removed 
jn  1835  to  New  York,  where  he  learned  the  trade  of  an  iron-moulder.  In  1848  he  began  to  write  for 
periodicals,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  In  1853  he  received  an  appointment  in  the  New  York  Custom-House, 
which  he  held  until  1870,  at  the  same  time  continuing  his  literary  labors.  He  was  for  a short  time  after 
leaving  the  Custom-House  City  Librarian,  and  is  now  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  New  York  Mail  and  Ex- 
press. We  might  also  mention  that  his  wife,  Elizabeth  D.  B.  Stoddard,  born  in  Massachusetts,  in  1823,  is 
also  a contributor  to  periodicals  and  has  published  three  novels. 

SUMNER. 

Charles  Sumner,  jurist  and  statesman,  was  born  in  Boston,  January  6th,  1811,  graduated  at  Harvard 
College  and  studied  at  the  law  school  in  Cambridge.  He  opened  an  office  in  Boston,  and  was  appointer  of 
the  United  States  Circuit  Court.  He  was  one  of  the  editors  of  The  American  Jurist , and  lectured  at  the 
law  school  for  three  winters  previously  to  his  tour  in  Europe  in  1837-40.  In  1851  he  was  elected  to  the 
United  States  Senate  as  successor  to  Mr.  Webster.  He  subsequently  visited  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  his  * 
health — the  result  of  an  unfortunate  affair  in  the  Senate  chamber  in  1856.  He  re-entered  the  Senate  in  1859. 
He  opposed  President  Grant’s  Santo  Domingo  treaty  and  his  renomination  for  the  Presidency,  but  declined 
the  Democratic  and  Liberal  Republican  nomination  for  the  Governorship  of  Massachusetts,  which  was  ten* 
dered  him  by  the  Worcester  Convention.  Sumner  died  March  nth,  1874. 

SWINBURNE. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  son  of  the  late  Admiral  Charles  Henry  Swinburne,  was  born  in  Gros* 
venor  Place,  London,  April  5th,  1837.  He  entered  as  a commoner  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  in  1857,  but 
left  the  university  without  taking  a degree.  He  afterwards  visited  Florence,  and  spent  some  time  with  the 
late  Savage  Landor.  Since  then  he  has  published  a number  of  volumes,  both  of  poetry  and  pro*e,  his 
latest  being  “A  Century  of  Roundels,”  in  1883. 

TAPPAN. 

William  Bingham  Tappan  was  born  in  Beverly,  Massachusetts,  in  1794.  He  entered  the  service  of  the 
American  Sunday-School  Union  in  1826,  and  continued  this  connection  until  his  death  at  West  Needham, 
Massachusetts,  in  1849. 

\ TAYLOR. 

Bayard  Taylor,  traveller,  editor  and  poet,  was  born  in  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania,  January  nth,  1825. 
He  became  an  apprentice  in  a printing  office  in  West  Chester,  Pa.,  in  1842.  For  two  years  he  travelled  in 
Europe  (1844-46)  at  an  expense  of  only  five  hundred  dollars.  On  his  return  home  he  published  and  edited 
a paper  in  Phcenixville,  Pa.,  for  one  year.  He  left  Philadelphia  August  28th,  1851,  and  returned  to  New 
York  December  20th,  1853,  after  accomplishing  more  than  fifty  thousand  miles  of  travel  in  Asia,  Africa  and 
Europe.  He  started  on  a fourth  tour  July,  1856,  and  returned  to  New  York  October,  1858.  In  1852  he  be- 
came Secretary  to  the  American  Legation  at  the  court  of  St.  Petersburg.  His  death  occurred  in  1878. 

Thomas  Rawson  Taylor  was  born  at  Ossett,  England,  in  1807.  He  was  minister  of  Howard  Street 
Chapel,  Sheffield,  from  July,  1830,  to  January,  1831,  when  he  resigned  on  account  of  ill-health.  He  died 
in  1835. 

TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  universally  acknowledged  to  be  the  greatest  of  living  poets,  was  born  at  Somersby-. 
Lincolnshire,  in  1810.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  In  1829  he  gained  the  Chancel- 
lor’s medal  for  an  English  prize  poem,  his  brother  Frederick  having  received  a medal  for  a Greek  poem  in 
the  preceding  year.  Tennyson  succeeded  Wordsworth  as  poet-laureate  November  2 1st,  1850,  and  received 
the  degree  of  D.  C.  L.  from  Oxford  in  1855. 

THOMSON. 

James  Thomson,  the  author  of  “The  Seasons,”  was  born  at  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  September  Iith 


338 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


1700.  He  was  designed  for  the  ministry,  but  this  intention  he  abandoned  for  the  purpose  of  devoting  him* 
self  to  literature.  He  proved  himself  a true  poet  of  nature.  He  died  on  the  17th  of  August,  1748. 

TILTON. 

Theodore  Tilton  was  born  in  1835,  in  the  city  of  New  York.  He  received  a good  education  and  be* 
came  early  in  life  connected  with  the  Independent,  a widely  circulated  weekly  paper.  The  connection  lasted 
fifteen  years.  In  1871  he  started  a new  weekly,  The  Golden  Age,  which  did  not  meet  with  the  success  it 
deserved.  He  has  shown  much  versatility  both  in  prose  and  verse. 

TIMROD. 

Henry  Timrod  was  born  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  in  1829.  He  wrote  some  Confederate  war  lyrics  during 
the  late  civil  war.  He  also  published  at  Boston  a volume  of  poems  in  i860.  These  were  republished  with 
additions  and  a memoir  by  Paul  H.  Hayne,  the  Southern  poet.  Timrod  died  in  1867. 

WASHINGTON. 

The  great  “ Father  of  his  Country”  was  born  in  Virginia,  on  February  22d,  1732.  We  could  not  omit 
the  name  of  the  patriot  and  hero  in  our  list  of  biographical  sketches,  although  the  incidents  of  his  life  are, 
or  should  be,  known  to  all.  The  limits  of  our  space  will  not  allow  a detailed  account  of  the  offices  he  held, 
or  the  incidents  of  his  life.  History  gives  account  of  no  nobler  ruler.  He  became  President  of  the  United 
States  March  4th,  1789,  which  office  he  held  until  March  4th,  1797.  He  died  at  Mount  Vernon,  after  two 
days’  illness,  December  4th,  1799. 

“ Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 
When  gazing  on  the  great ; 

To  whom  nor  guilty  glory  shows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 

Yes,  one  the  first,  the  last,  the  best, 

The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate — 

Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington: 

Tc  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one.” — Byrm . 

WATTS. 

Isaac  Watts,  D.  D.,  was  born  at  Southampton,  July  17th,  1674.  He  studied  from  his  sixteenth  to  liis 
nineteenth  year  at  an  academy  in  London.  He  preached  his  first  sermon  July  17th,  1698.  He  was  attacked 
by  a violent  fever  in  1712,  from  which  he  never  Tully  recovered.  He  died  November  25th,  1748. 

WEBSTER. 

Daniel  Webster,  a son  of  Ebenezer  Webster,  a soldier  of  the  Old  French  War  and  of  the  Revolution, 
-was  born  in  Salisbury,  New  Hampshire,  January  18th,  1782.  He  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1805.  He  practised  law  at  Boscawen  and  at  Portsmouth.  He  was  Secretary  of  State  under  Harrison,  Tyler 
and  under  Fillmore,  until  his  death  at  Marshfield,  Mass.,  October  24th,  1852.  Webster  was  one  of  the 
greatest  orators  which  our  country  has  produced.  John  C.  Calhoun  said  of  him  : “ Mr.  Webster  has  as  highj 
a standard  of  truth  as  any  statesman  whom  I have  met  in  debate.  Convince  him,  and  he  cannot  reply;  he* 
is  silenced;  he  cannot  look  truth  in  the  face  and  oppose  it  by  argument.”  A higher  tribute  to  our  great 
statesman  could  hardly  be  given. 

WELBY. 

Amelia  B.  Welby,  nee  Coppack,  was  born  at  St.  Michael’s,  Maryland,  in  1821.  She  removed  to  Louis- 
ville, Kentucky,  about  1835,  and  was  married  to  George  B.  Welby,  of  that  city,  in  1838.  Mrs.  Welby  died 
«.t  Lexington,  Kentucky,  May  2d,  1852. 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 


389 


WHITTIER. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  was  born  near  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  1808,  and  spent  his  first  twenty 
years  chiefly  on  his  father’s  farm.  In  1829  he  removed  to  Boston  to  become  editor  of  the  American  Manu- 
facturer. In  1836  he  became  one  of  the  secretaries  of  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society,  and  soon  after- 
wards removed  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  remained  until  1840.  In  1840  he  removed  to  Amesbury,  Mass. 

WOLCOTT. 

John  Wolcott  (Peter  Pindar)  was  born  at  Dodbrooke,  Devonshire,  in  1738.  He  served  an  apprentice- 
ship of  seven  years  to  his  uncle,  a physician  of  Cornwall.  In  1767  he  accompanied  the  Governor  of 
Jamaica  to  the  West  Indies.  After  a visit  to  London  he  returned  to  Jamaica  as  a clergyman  and  “ amused 
himself  Dy  shooting  ring-tailed  pigeons  on  Sundays.”  He  died  at  Somerstown,  January  13th,  1819. 

WOLFE. 

Charles  Wolfe  was  born  in  Dublin,  December  14th,  1791,  and  educated  at  the  University  of  Dublin. 
•He  took  holy  orders  in  1817,  and  after  a few  weeks’  labor  at  Ballyclog,  Tyrone,  became  curate  of  the  parish 
of  Donoughmore,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  the  zealous  discharge  of  his  spiritual  functions.  He  died 
at  the  Cove  of  Co-ric,  February  21st,  1823. 

WOODWORTH. 

Samuel  Woodworth  was  born  in  Scituate,  Massachusetts,  January  13th,  1785.  He  edited  a number  of 
magazines  and  wrote  many  ballads  and  songs.  Woodworth  died  in  1842. 

EDWARD  YOUNG. 

The  author  of  “ Night  Thoughts”  was  born  in  Hampshire,  England,  in  1681.  He  studied  for  the  bar, 
but  forsook  the  law — which,  indeed,  he  had  never  practised— at  the  age  of  fifty.  In  1728  he  was  appointed 
chaplain  to  the  king.  He  died  April  12th,  1765. 


I 


PAGE 


Are  Maria,  blessed  be  the  hand 4° 

Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide ioi 

A mighty  fortress  is  our  God 120 

At  nightfall  by  the  firelight’s  cheer 121 

Afar  in  the  desert  I love  to  roam / 132 

A good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn 144 

“All’s  quiet  along  the  Potomac,”  they  say 151 

A lily  said  to  a threatening  cloud : 151 

A soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers 157 

A thing  of  beauty  is  a joy  forever 169 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 193 

A wet  sheet  and  a flowing  sea 195 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting 222 

An  old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide 243 

All  the  world’s  a stage 261 

A baby  was  sleeping 1 290 

Alone  I stand 295 

Abou  Ben  Adhem — may  his  tribe  increase 306 

After  life’s  long  watch  and  ward 308 

A fellow  in  a market  town..... 331 

A supercilious  nabob  of  the  East 337 

At  midnight  in  his  guarded  tent...^, 345 

A pretty  deer  is  dear  to  me 346 

An’  sure  I was  tould  to  come  in  till  yer  honor 368 

Alone  with  thee,  my  God,  alone  with  thee 371 

By  Nebo’s  lonely  mountain 55 

By  the  dread  of  sin  and  sorrow 106 

Break,  Break,  Break 131 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below , 197 

Beyond  the  north  where  Ural  hills  from  polar  tempests  run.  210 
Better  to  smell  the  violet  cool,  than  sip  the  glowing  wine....  293 
Ben  Battle  was  a soldier  brave,  well  used  to  war’s  alarms...  326 

Baby  bye 336 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell 343 

Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold 349 

Be  thou  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow 351 

1 Bachelor's  hall,  what  a quare-lookin’  place  it  is 356 

Beautiful  toiler,  thy  work  all  done 365 

Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night 174 

Cheq’ring  with  partial  shade  the  beams  of  noon 265 

Children  of  the  sun’s  first  glancing 271 

Come  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts 292 

Courage,  brother ! do  not  slumber 303 

Come  from  the  far-off  spirit  world  to-night 350 


PAGE 


Dear  world,  looking  down  from  the  highest  of  heights  that 

my  feet  can  attain 54 

Dear  Friend,  whose  presence  in  the  house 73 

Day  is  dying  ! Float,  O song 98 

Day  of  vengeance  without  morrow 120 

Don’t  go  to  the  theatre,  concert,  or  ball 182 

Dark  is  the  night.  How  dark  ! No  light!  no  fire  ! 245 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ? The  sparrow,  the  dove...  280 

Dow’s  flat,  that’s  its  name 325. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  widow  Malone 340 

De  Jay-bird  hunt  de  sparrer-nes’ 354. 

Drop,  drop  slow  tears 356 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 73 

Even  is  come ; and  from  the  dark  park,  hark 337 

Father  of  all,  in  every  age 3& 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 37 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  were  questioned  what  they  thought.  41 

Father,  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done 55. 

Fair  goes  the  dancing  when  the  sitar’s  tuned 62 

From  his  lips,  truth,  limpid,  without  error  flowed .......  77 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow 108- 

From  the  desert  I come  to  thee 242; 

Farewell,  ye  mountains,  ye  beloved  glades 28:. 

Fair  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle  sug- 
gestion is  fairer 345 

Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother 68 

Genteel  in  personage 196 

Great  Ocean,  strongest  of  creation's  sons 200 

Go  feel  what  I have  felt zjx 

Go  for  a sail  this  mornin’  ? 25a 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child 299 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints  ; 'tis  wit  in  them 349 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 356 

Got  any  boys  ? the  marshal  said 360 

Hark,  the  glad  sound  ! the  Saviour  comes 41 

How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds ...  42 

Here  once  my  step  was  quickened 53 

How  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  bells 62 

Hark  to  the  shouting  wind 68- 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood 72 

How  seldom,  friend,  a good,  great  man  inherits 79. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands pc 


1391) 


392 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 140 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 152 

Hamelin  town’s  in  Brunswick 165 

He  is  gone  on  the^mountain 191 

Here,  a sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling 200 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 219 

He  was  little  more  than  a baby .' 235 

Has  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 277 

How  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken 280 

Half  a league,  Half  a league 281 

Here  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  I look 300 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear  and  yet  not  break 306 

How  hard,  when  tl$ose  who  do  not  wish 315 

Ha!  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin’ ferlie? 332 

Half  an  hour  till  train-time,  sir 369 

I would  not  live  alway 37 

I saw  him  once  before 38 

I am  but  a stranger  here - 42 

I could  not  at  first  be  born 43 

If  I had  known,  oh,  loyal  heart 69 

I’m  wearing  awa’,  Jean 79 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner 80 

I stood  one  Sunday  morning 97 

In  the  church-yard  up  in  the  old  high  town 100 

It  was  many  and  many  a year  ago 133 

I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern.... 134 

I love  it,  I love  it ! and  who  shall  dare 138 

I sprang  into  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he 154 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 164 

I remember,  I remember 169 

I ne’er  could  any  lustre  see 173 

I’m  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary '. 176 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard 192 

“ It  snows  ! ” cries  the  schoolboy — “ Hurrah  ! ” and  his 

shout 190 

I bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 198 

In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower 215 

I looked  upon  a plain  of  green 216 

I’ve  worked  in  the  field  all  day,  a plowin’  the  “ stony 

streak” 217 

In  the  valley  of  Tawassentha 226 

I once  had  a sweet  little  doll,  dears 230 

I will  rise  and  pray  while  the  dews  of  morn 231 

It  kindles  all  my  soul 245 

I’ll  tell  you  a story  that’s  not  in  Tom  Moore 274 

I have  had  playmates,  I have  had  companions 283 

I wonder  if  ever  a song  was  sung 290 

I would  not  lose  a single  silvery  ray 293 

I like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase 299 

It’s  a bonnie  warl’  that  we’re  livin’  in  the  noo 302 

It  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! 308 

I tell  you,  Kate,  that  Lovejoy  cow 319 

I reckon  I get  your  drift,  gents 321 

In  January,  when  down  the  dairy  the  cream  and  clabber 

freeze 335 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 352 

l know  not  whence  it  rises 352 

In  Watherford,  wanst,  lived  Profissor  McShane 354 

I’ve  just  come  in  from  the  meadow,  wife 365 

I’ve  wandered  to  the  village,  Tom,  I’ve  sat  beneath  the 

tree 368 

It’s  Patrick  Dolin,  myself  and  no  other 370 

innocence  shall  make 370 


PAO* 

Joy  to  the  world,  the  Lord  is  come 42 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 332 


Kiss  me  though  you  make  believe 225 

Kissing  her  hair,  I sat  against  her  feet 267 

Know’st  thou  the  land  where  the  fair  citron  blows 360 


Linger  not  long,  home  is  not  home  without  thee 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall 

Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 

Little  Gretchen,  Little  Gretchen,  wanders  up  and  down  the 


street 269 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long,  is  the  burden  of  my  song 274 

Little  Nan  Gordoh... 366 

Little  Nan  Gordon  (Sequel) 367 

Men,  dying,  make  their  wills,  but  wives 79 

Maud  Muller,  on  a summer’s  day 88 

My  loved,  my  honored,  my  much-respected  friend 126 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here 192 

My  fairest  child,  I have  no  song  to  give  you 237 

Mabel,  little  Mabel 248 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part 261 

My  soul  to-day  is  far  away 273 

My  heart  is  lonely  as  heart  can  be 289 

My  heart  was  galled  with  bitter  wrong 204 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 301 

My  Madeline,  my  Madeline 307 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I have  his 331 


Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 41 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  not  a funeral  note 134 

No 187 

No  baby  in  the  house,  I know 197 

Not  here  in  the  populous  town 201 

Nigh  to  a grave  that  was  newly  made 236 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day’s  harbinger 267 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  seas 268 

Now,  I’s  got  a notion  in  my  head  dat  when  you  come  t© 
die - • 354 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 42 

Oh  ! why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud 46 

O Rosamond,  thou  fair  and  good 57 

One  summer  day  a farmer  and  his  son 61 

Oh  ! whar  shall  we  go  w’en  de  great  day  comes 71 

O still  white  face  of  perfect  peace 72 

O the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow 76 

Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man 135 

One  more  unfortunate 146 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hague,  sixteen  hundred  and  ninety- 

two 158 

O little  feet ! that  such  long  years 160 

On  parent’s  knees  a naked,  new-born  child 160 

Once  upon  a midnight  dreary,  while  I pondered  weak  and 

weary 161 

Oh,  sing  once  more  those  joy-provoking  strains 175 

O lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear 185 

O wild  west  wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn’s  being 187 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 196 

On  the  bank  of  a river  was  seated  one  day 197 

O sweet  shy  girl,  with  roses  in  her  heart 205 

O that  those  lips  had  language  ! Life  has  passed 208 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


393 


PAGE 

Our  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered 225 


O whither  sail  you.  Sir  John  Franklin 233 

O,  my  love,  is  like  a red,  red  rose 266 

O tell  me,  Sergeant  of  Battery  B 266 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 282 

O don’t  be  sorrowful,  darling 289 

Our  table  is  spread  for  two  to-night 298 

On  Margate  beach,  where  the  sick  one  roams 316 

Ol'  marster  is  a cur’us  man,  as  sho’  as  yo'  is  born 324 

O love,  come  back,  across  the  weary  way 344 

O it  is  monstrous  ! monstrous  ! 349 

O what  is  that  comes  glidin’  in 358 

**  Perfect  Jewels,  Gems  resplendent  ” 3 

Papa,  the  bell's  a ringin’ 182 

Pleasantly  rose  one  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of  Grand- 
Pre 202 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me 38 

Rattle  the  window,  winds  ! 194 

Roll  on,  thou  bells,  roll  on  ! 341 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky . 342 

Seated  one  day  at  the  organ... 35 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath 37 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet 53 

Say,  watchman,  what  of  the  night? 56 

She  rose  from  her  delicious  sleep 70 

Stop  1 for  thy  tread  is  on  an  empire’s  dust.. 1 16 

Some  reckon  their  age  by  years 128 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 129 

Somewhere  the  summer  bloom  has  joined  the  sadder 

spring 192 

Sweet  Auburn  ! loveliest  village  of  the  plain 255 

Shweet  Jinny,  I write  on  me  knee 272 

Slowly  the  night  is  falling 279 

Shed  no  tear ! Oh,  shed  no  tear  ! 283 

Sweet,  be  not  proud 290 

Say  there  l P’r’aps 318 

Said  Nestor  to  his  pretty  wife^uite  sorrowful  one  day 341 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair 346 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and  seen 352 

The  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 33 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers 35 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flee  by 44 

'Twill  not  be  long — this  wearing  commotion 47 

There  is  no  death 53 

'Twas  Easter  night  in  Milan,  and  before 56 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended 57 

Talking  of  sects  till  late  one  evening 60 

'Tis  the  part  of  a coward  to  brood 64 

There  are  three  words  that  sweetly  blend 66 

The  wind  blew  wide  the  casement,  and  within 67 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a wolf  on  the  fold 68 

This  book  is  all  that’s  left  me  now 71 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year 79 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 98 

The  night  has  a thousand  eyes 115 

'Tis  midnight’s  holy  hour — and  silence  now 119 

The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall 131 

The  mackerel  boats  sailed  slowly  out 141 

’Tis  beauteous  night;  the  stars  look  brightly  down 144 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray ..  151 


PAGE 


The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 163 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 163 

’Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time 170 

The  dearest  spot  on  earth  to  me 175 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 17* 

Tired  nature’s  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep 180 

'Tis  evening,  and.  the  round  red  sun  sinks  slowly  in  the 

west 190 

The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair 191 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary 194 

The  sea ! the  sea  ! the  open  sea ! 195 

Those  evening  bells 216 

The  chief  in  silence  strode  before ..  232 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 237 

There’s  a magical  isle  in  the  River  of  Time 244 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short - 245 

There’s  a city  that  lies  in  the  Kingdom  of  Clouds 247 

There  is  the  hat 252 

The  day  dies  slowly  in  the  western  sky 253 

The  whip-poor-will  is  calling 260 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained 264 

The  day  is  past  and  gone 264 

Tread  softly,  bow  the  head..... 266 

Two  hands  upon  the  breast 289 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 290 

'Tis  believed  that  this  harp,  which  I now  wake  for  thee....  294 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck ..  294 

The  sails  we  see  on  the  ocean 302 

Two  honest  tradesmen,  meeting  in  the  Strand 333 

The  day  is  done  and  darkness 348 

There  is  a day  of  sunny  rest 349 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily 349 

The  purest  treasure  moral  time  afford 349 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 349 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 349 

These  our  actors 349) 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye 350- 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling 361 

'Twas  on  the  shores  that  round  the  coast 364. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last 367 

The  minister  said  last  night,  said  he 369 

'Twas  late  in  the  autumn  of  ’83 371 

Toll!  Roland,  toll  1 372: 

Under  a spreading  chestnut-tree 125 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day 351 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame 73 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night 41 

Who  can  paint  like  nature  ? - 41 

When  for  me  the  silent  oar 47 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved 72 

When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 90 

We  see  not,  know  not ; all  our  way 97 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  1 102 

Within  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 107 

j Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 109 

j When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth 109 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower 143 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 162 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 178 

| Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 183 

r When  God  at  first  made  man 185 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 


While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels 185 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew 186 

Werther  had  a love  for  Charlotte 205 

What  does  little  birdie  say  ? 209 

Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid? 215 

When  sets  the  evening  sun 236 

When  falls  the  soldier  brave 249 

Which  I wish  to  remark 276 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 290 

When  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young 291 

Waltz  in,  waltz  in,  ye  little  kids,  and  gather  round  my 

knee 320 

What  a moment,  what  a doubt ! 326 

Widow  machree,  it’s  no  wonder  you  frown 333 

When  a pair  of  red  lips  are  upturned  to  your  own 340 

When  freedom  from  her  mountain  height 344 

We  all  keep  step  to  the  marching  chorus 348 


PAG8 


With  silent  awe  I hail  the  sacred  morn 349 

Whereby  repentance  is  not  satisfied 351 

What  are  you  doing  here 357 

When  first  I saw  sweet  Peggy 359 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended 362 

Well,  wife.  I’ve  found  the  model  church — I worshipped 

there  to-day 370 

You  have  read  of  the  Moslem  palace 51 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear 112 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon 183 

Young  Ben,  he  was  a nice  young  man 314 

You  may  notch  it  on  de  palin's  as  a mighty  resky  plan 341 

You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world 349 

Ye  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory 357 

Young  Rory  O’More  courted  Kathleen  bawn........o«..,., 


Adams,  Sarah  Flower. 

Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,  41. 

Addison,  Joseph. 

Soliloquy  on  Immortality,  308. 

Aird,  Thomas. 

The  Devil’s  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck,  210. 
Akers,  Elizabeth. 

Endurance,  306. 

Alcott,  Louisa  M. 

A Sermon  Without  a Text,  246. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey. 

After  the  Rain,  290. 

Before  the  Rain,  290. 

The  Face  Against  the  Pane,  248. 
Alexander,  Cecil  Francis. 

The  Burial  of  Moses,  55. 

Allston,  Washington. 

Humility,  186. 

Truth,  198. 

Anderson,  Alexander. 

Bairnies,  Cuddle  Doon,  176. 

Anonymous.  / 

Alone  with  God,  371. 

A Modest  Wit,  337. 

An  Alliterative  Poem,  307. 

An  Invocation,  350. 

A Picture,  298. 

A Prayer,  73. 

Enchantment,  302. 

Evening  Hymn,  264. 

Forgiveness,  294. 

He  Giveth  his  Beloved  Sleep,  236. 
Homeward,  253. 

Home  Songs,  175. 

I Doubt  It,  340. 

In  Suffering,  55. 

I Wonder,  290. 

John  Jankin’s  Sermon,  369. 

Last  Moments  of  Mozart,  188. 

Love  Lightens  Labor,  144. 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long,  274. 

Mother,  Home  and  Heaven,  64. 

My  Angel,  279. 

No  Sects  in  Heaven,  60. 

Of  Prayer,  231. 


Oh,  Sing  Once  More  Those  Joy-Provokiag 
Strains,  175. 

Pat’s  Love-Letter,  370. 

Praise,  37. 

Regret,  69. 

Somewhere,  192. 

Sympathy,  71. 

Tact  and  Talent,  130. 

The  Baby,  160. 

The  Beauties  of  English  Orthography,  346. 

The  Drunkard’s  Daughter,  231. 

The  General  Chorus,  348. 

The  Indian  Chieftain,  371. 

The  Irish  Woman’s  Lament,  368. 

The  Hero  of  Sugar  Pine,  266. 

The  Magical  Isle,  244. 

The  Righteous  Never  Forsaken,  58. 

The  River  and  the  Tide,  197. 

The  Sea,  195. 

The  Wandering  Jew,  283. 

The  Wife  to  Her  Husband,  44. 

The  Woods  of  Tennessee,  260. 

Twenty  Years  Ago,  368. 

’Twill  Not  be  Long,  47. 

Two  Pictures,  243. 

Watchman,  What  of  the  Night?  56. 

Where  Are  You  Going,  My  Pretty  Maid? 
215. 

“Write  Them  a Letter  To-Night,”  182. 
Arnold,  Edwin. 

The  Music  of  Life,  62. 

Balch,  William  R. 

Preface,  5. 

Barker,  Eliza  H. 

Shun  the  Bowl,  106. 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes. 

The  Mistletoe  Bough,  131. 

Beattie,  James. 

Morning,  343. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Folding  the  Flocks,  346. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward. 

A Tribute  to  Our  Honored  Dead,  136. 

Happy  Thoughts,  228. 

The  Changing  Year,  238. 


395) 


39^ 


INDEX  OF  A XJTHORS. 


Beers,  Ethelin  Eliot. 

The  Picket-Guard,  15 1. 

Benjamin,  Park. 

The  Sexton,  236. 

Bickersteth,  Edward,  D.  D.,  LL.  D. 

The  Ministry  of  Jesus,  77. 

Billings,  Josh. 

Letters  to  Fanners,  342. 

Not  Enny  Shanghi  For  Me,  322. 

Blaine,  James  G. 

Oration  on  Garfield,  155. 

Bloomfield,  Robert. 

Lambs  at  Play,  352. 

Boker,  George  H. 

Sir  John  Franklin,  233. 

Bonar,  Horatius. 

The  Master’s  Touch,  192. 

Bourdillon,  Francis  W. 

Light,  1 15. 

The  Home  of  My  Heart,  201  „ 

Bowles,  Caroline  Anne. 

The  Pauper’s  Death- Bed,  266. 

Brooks,  Phillips. 

The  Symbol  and  the  Reality,  366. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

A Child  Asleep,  280. 

He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Sleep,  236. 

Browning,  Robert. 

Herve  Riel,  158. 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  183. 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  165. 

The  Ride  From  Ghent  to  Aix,  154. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

Blessed  Are  They  That  Mourn,  349. 
Thanatopsis,  98. 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers,  79. 

To  a Water  Fowl,  186. 

Bulwer  (Lord  Lytton). 

The  Candid  Man,  92. 

There  is  No  Death,  53. 

Bungay,  George  W. 

The  Creeds  of  the  Bells,  62. 

Burns,  Robert. 

For  a’  That  and  a’  That,  164. 

Man  Was  Made  to  Mourn,  90. 

My  Heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  192. 

O,  My  Luve’s  Like  a Red,  Red  Rose,  266. 

To  a Louse,  332. 

To  a Mountain  Daisy,  143. 

To  Mary  in  Heaven,  151. 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  120. 

Burritt,  Elihu. 

The  Light  of  Knowledge,  118. 

Byrqm,  John. 

An  Epigram  on  the  Blessedness  of  Divine  Love, 
41. 

The  Three  Black  Crows,  333. 

Byron,  Lord. 

Evensong,  40. 

Maid  of  Athens,  Ere  we  Part,  260. 


She  Walks  in  Beauty,  129. 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  68. 

The  Field  of  Waterloo,  116. 

To  Thomas  Moore,  301. 

Cable,  George  W. 

A Golden  Sunset,  284. 

Campbell,  Thomas. 

Hohenlinden,  196. 

The  Soldier’s  Dream,  225. 

Carey,  Henry. 

A Maiden’s  Ideal  of  a Husband,  196. 

Carleton,  Will  M. 

Gone  With  a Handsomer  Man,  217. 

Carlyle,  Thomas. 

Await  the  Issue,  270. 

Speech  and  Silence,  279. 

Cary,  Alice. 

A Dying  Plymn,  73. 

Make  Believe,  225. 

Cary,  Phcebe. 

Dreams  and  Realities,  57. 

Casimir  of  Poland,  From  the  Latin  or. 
It  Kindles  all  my  Soul,  245. 

Channing,  William  Ellery. 

Books,  175. 

Chateaubriand. 

No  Religion  Without  Mysteries,  254. 
Chatham. 

True  Politeness,  173. 

Choate,  Rufus. 

Eulogy  on  Daniel  Webster,  362. 

Clarke,  James  Freeman. 

Christ’s  Presence  in  the  House,  73. 
Coates,  Dr. 

The  Gambler’s  Wife,  245. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor. 

Answer  to  a Child’s  Question,  280. 

Metrical  Feet,  245. 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  80. 

The  Good  Great  Man,  79. 

Collins. 

The  Passions,  291. 

Collyer,  Robert. 

The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh,  361. 

Cook,  Eliza. 

The  Old  Arm  Chair,  138. 

Cornwall,  Henry  Sylvester. 

The  Sunset  City,  247. 

Cowper,  William. 

On  Receipt  of  His  Mother’s  Picture,  208. 
Craik,  Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 

Now  and  Afterwards,  289. 

Cross,  Marian  Evans  Lewes  ( George  Eliot )„ 
Day  is  Dying,  98. 

Cunningham,  Allan. 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea,  195. 


INDEX  OF  A U THORS. 


397 


DeKay,  Charles. 

Farragut,  308. 

De  Lisle,  Rouget. 

The  Marseillaise,  351. 

Dennie,  Joseph. 

Jack  and  Gill,  309. 

Denovan,  William. 

Proem,  “ Perfect  Jewels,  Gems  Resplendent,”  3. 
De  Quincey. 

The  Knocking  in  Macbeth,  296. 

Dibdin,  Charles. 

Tom  Bowling,  200. 

Dickens,  Charles. 

Death  of  Little  Nell,  148. 

My  Christmas  Tree,  no. 

The  Children,  363. 

Dix,  John  A. 

Dies  Irae,  120. 

Doddridge,  Philip. 

Hark,  the  Glad  Sound,  41. 

Dodge,  A.  W. 

Little  Nan,  A Sequel,  367. 

Dolliver,  Clara  G. 

No  Baby  in  the  House,  197. 

Douglass,  Frederick. 

Extract  from  Autobiography,  359. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. 

The  American  Flag,  344. 

Dufferin,  Lady,  Helen  Selina  Sheridan. 
Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant,  176. 

Eastman,  Charles  Gamage. 

A Picture,  19 1. 

Edwards,  Amelia  Blandford. 

Give  Me  Three  Grains  of  Corn,  Mother,  68. 
Eggleston,  J.  R. 

Uncle  Mellick  Dines  With  His  Master,  324. 
Ellsworth,  W.  W. 

Nightfall,  295. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

The  Snow  Storm,  193. 

Travelling,  179. 

English,  Thomas  Dunn. 

The  Old  Mill,  300. 

Fink,  W.  W. 

A Love-Letter  from  Dakota,  27c. 

Finley,  John. 

Bachelor’s  Hall,  356. 

Fletcher,  Phineas. 

Drop,  Drop  Slow  Tears,  356. 

Franklin,  B. 

An  Axe  to  Grind,  200. 

Garfield,  James  A. 

Memory,  144. 


Gilbert,  William  Schwenk. 

To  the  Terrestrial  Globe,  341. 

Yarn  of  the  “ Nancy  Bell,”  364. 

Goethe. 

Mignon,  360. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a Mad  Dog,  356. 

Home,  197. 

The  Deserted  Village,  255. 

Goodale,  Dora  Read, 

Ripe  Grain,  72. 

Gough. 

The  Cause  of  Temperance,  104. 

Gray,  Thomas  A. 

Elegy  Written  in  a Country  Churchyard,  33. 
Greene,  Albert  G. 

Old  Grimes,  135. 

Hale,  Sarah  Josepha. 

It  Snows,  190. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene. 

Marco  Bozzaris,  349. 

Hamilton,  Gail. 

Duties  and  Responsibilities  of  Woman,  304* 
Harris,  Joel  Chandler. 

A Song  of  the  Mole,  354. 

Uncle  Remus’  Revival  Hymn,  71. 

Harte,  F.  Bret. 

Bill  Mason’s  Bride,  369. 

Dickens  in  Camp,  222. 

Dow’s  Flat,  1856,  325. 

Jim,  318. 

The  Heathen  Chinee,  276. 

The  Spelling-Bee  at  Angell’s,  320. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel. 

A Rill  from  the  Town  Pump,  122. 

Hay,  John. 

Banty  Tim,  321. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. 

Lyric  of  Action,  64. 

Love’s  Autumn,  293. 

Hedge,  Frederic  Henry,  Translation  of, 

A Mighty  Fortress  is  Our  God.  (From  the  Ger> 
man  of  Martin  Luther),  120. 

Heine,  Heinrich. 

The  Lore-Lei,  352. 

Hemans,  Felicia. 

Casabianca,  294. 

The  Hour  of  Death,  45. 

Herbert,  George. 

The  Gifts  of  God,  185. 

Herrick,  Robert. 

Sweet,  Be  Not  Proud,  290. 

Holland,  John  G. 

Getting  the  Right  Start,  206. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

The  Boys,  277. 

The  Last  Leaf,  38. 

The  Wonderful  “One-Hoss  Shay,”  219- 


39* 


INDEX  OF  A U THORS. 


Hood,  Thomas. 

December  and  May,  341. 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray,  326. 

Faithless  Sally  Brown,  314. 

I Remember,  I Remember,  169. 

Mermaid  of  Margate,  316. 

No!  187. 

Nocturnal  Sketch,  337. 

Ode  to  Melancholy,  292. 

Please  to  Ring  the  Belle,  274. 

Sally  Simpkins’  Lament,  359. 

The  Art  of  Book-Keeping,  315. 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  146. 

The  Death-Bed,  41. 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  170. 

To  My  Infant  Son,  237. 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  178. 

Hopkins,  Jane  Ellice. 

Life’s  Cost,  43. 

Howitt,  Mary. 

New  Year’s  Eve,  269. 

Hunt,  Leigh. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem,  306. 

Jennie  Kissed  Me,  332. 

Sneezing,  326. 

Ingelow,  Jean. 

When  Sparrows  Build,  109. 

Irving,  Washington. 

The  Alhambra  by  Moonlight,  184. 

Jefferson,  Thomas. 

A New  Decalogue,  214. 

(errold,  Douglas. 

The  Borrowed  Umbrella,  223. 

Mrs.  Caudle  Wants  Spring  Clothes,  220. 

Keats,  John. 

A Thing  of  Beauty  is  a Joy  Forever,  169. 

Fairy  Song,  283. 

Kenyon,  Miriam. 

Misunderstood,  357. 

Kingsley,  Charles. 

A Farewell,  237. 

The  Lost  Doll,  230. 

.Knox,  William. 

Oh ! Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud  ? 
46. 

Lamb,  Charles. 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces,  283. 

Lanigan,  G.  T. 

Millionaire  and  Barefoot  Boy,  190. 

Larcom,  Lucy. 

Across  the  River,  47. 

From  the  Mountain  Top,  54. 

Lathrop,  Mary  T. 

Rest,  365. 

Leonidas  of  Alexandria  (Greek). 

On  the  Picture  of  an  Infant,  185. 


Lever,  Charles. 

Widow  Malone,  340. 

Lewis,  Charles  M. 

Bijah’s  Story,  235. 

Leyden,  Dr.  John. 

The  Sabbath  Morning,  349. 

Lincoln,  Abraham. 

Address  at  the  Dedication  of  Gettysburg  Ceme- 
tery, 178. 

Retribution,  164. 

Long,  John  B. 

At  the  Fireside,  121. 

Longfellow,  Henry  W. 

A Psalm  of  Life,  35. 

Excelsior,  163. 

Exile  of  the  Acadians,  202. 

God’s  Acre,  299. 

Hiawatha,  226. 

Resignation,  57. 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield,  361. 

The  Day  is  Done,  348. 

The  Little  Children,  160. 

The  Rainy  Day,  194. 

The  Village  Blacksmith,  125. 

Lovelace,  Col.  Richard. 

To  Althea  from  Prison,  162. 

Lover,  Samuel. 

Rory  O’ More,  358. 

The  Angel’s  Whisper,  290. 

The  Low-Backed  Car,  359. 

Widow  Machree,  333. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Auf  Wiederschen,  367. 

The  Dead-House,  52. 

Lyte,  Henry  F. 

Abide  With  Me,  101. 

Macon,  J.  A. 

Observations  of  Rev.  Gabe  Tucker,  341. 
Theology  in  the  Quarters,  354. 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke. 

From  Afar,  344. 

Massey,  Gerald. 

O Lay  Thy  Hand  in  Mine,  Dear!  185. 
McLeod,  Rev.  N. 

Rhymes  for  Hard  Times,  303. 

McDonald,  George. 

Better  Things,  293. 

The  Baby,  183. 

Milman. 

St.  Paul  at  Athens,  74. 

Milnes,  Richard  Monckton. 

London  Churches,  97. 

Milton,  John. 

Song:  On  May  Morning,  267. 

Mitchell,  William. 

The  Palace  of  the  King,  302. 


INDEX  OF  A U THORS. 


.Moore,  Thomas. 

The  Light  House,  350. 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp,  294. 

Those  Evening  Bells,  216. 

Morris,  George  Perkins. 

My  Mother’s  Bible,  70. 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree,  109. 

Morse,  Philip. 

Milking  Time,  319. 

Muckle,  Mary  J. 

There  are  Three  Words  That  Sweetly  Blend,  66. 

Muhlenberg,  Wm.  Aug.,  D.  D. 

I Would  not  Live  Alway,  37. 

Nairne,  Carolina,  Baroness. 

The  Land  o’  the  Leal,  79. 

Norton,  Caroline  E. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine,  157. 

Nutt,  Rev.  J.  K. 

“ Five  Twices,”  182. 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows,  282. 

Peale,  Rembrandt. 

Faith  and  Hope,  289. 

Phillips,  Wendell. 

Toussaint  L’Ouverture,  142. 

Piatt,  John  James. 

The  House’s  Darling,  205. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan. 

Annabel  Lee,  133. 

The  Bells,  140. 

The  Raven,  161. 

Pollok,  Robert. 

Ocean,  200. 

Pope,  Alexander. 

The  Dying  Christian  ko  His  Soul,  73. 

The  Universal  Prayer,  36. 

Prentice,  George  Denison. 

The  Closing  Year,  1 1 9. 

Preston,  Margaret  J. 

For  Love’s  Sake,  51. 

The  First  Te  Deum,  56. 

Pringle,  Thomas. 

Afar  in  the  Desert,  132. 

Proctor,  Adelaide  Ann. 

The  Lost  Chord,  35. 

Proctor,  Bryan  W.  ( Barry  Cornwall). 

Softly  Woo  Away  Her  Breath,  37. 

The  Owl,  215. 

The  Sea,  the  Sea,  the  Open  Sea,  195. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan. 

Drifting,  273. 

Sheridan’s  Ride,  351. 

The  Closing  Scene,  107. 

Realf,  Richard. 

Indirection,  345. 


Ruskin. 

The  True  Use  of  Wealth,  262. 

Russell,  Irwin. 

Nine  Graves  in  Edinboro’,  IOO. 

The  Irish  Eclipse,  354. 

Ryan,  Abram  J. 

Sentinel  Songs,  249. 

The  Rosary  of  My  Tears,  128. 

Sargent,  Epes. 

A Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  307. 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey. 

The  Puzzled  Census-Taker,  360. 

Woman’s  Will,  79. 

Schaff,  Philip,  D.  D. 

Immortality,  42. 

Schiller. 

Children  of  the  Sun’s  First  Glancing,  tjt, 
Joan  of  Arc’s  Farewell  to  Home,  281. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Coronach,  191. 

Fitz-James  and  Roderick  Dhu,  232. 
Rebecca’s  Hymn,  71. 

Shakespeare,  William. 

Beauty’s  Danger,  349. 

Chastity,  351. 

Consciousness  of  Guilt,  349. 

Difference  of  Degree,  349. 

Imagination,  349. 

Innocence,  340. 

Insubstantiality  of  Dreams,  349. 

Patience  and  Cowardice,  349. 

Repentance,  351. 

Reputation,  349. 

Respect  for  the  World,  349. 

Seven  Ages  of  Man,  261. 

Superfluity,  349. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  187. 

Sunset,  352. 

The  Clouds,  198. 

To  a Skylark,  152. 

Shepherd,  N.  G. 

Only  the  Clothes  She  Wore,  252. 
Sheridan,  Richard  .Bri^s^ey. 

I Ne’er  Could' any  Lustre  See,  17$. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip. 

A Ditty,  331. 

Sigourney,  Lydia  Huntley. 

Go  to  Thy  Rest,  299. 

The  Gain  of  Adversity,  15 1. 

Sims,  George  R. 

In  the  Harbor,  250. 

Simms,  William  Gilmore. 

Mother  and  Child,  67. 

Slick,  Sam,  Jr. 

The  Long  Voyage,  141. 

Southey,  Robert. 

The  Inchcape  Rock,  268. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarenc*. 

Country  Sleighing,  335. 


400 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Stirling,  John. 

Prose  and  Song,  218. 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. 

The  Brahman’s  Lesson,  61. 

Wind  and  Rain,  194. 

St.  Paul. 

Charity,  45. 

Spurgeon,  Charles  H. 

Our  Banner,  364. 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher. 

Eva’s  Death,  48. 

Sumner,  Charles. 

True  Glory,  300. 

Swing,  David. 

Salvation  and  Morality,  357. 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles. 

Kissing  Her  Hair,  267. 

Talmage,  T.  De  Witt,  D.  D. 

Introduction,  23. 

Tappan,  William  B. 

There  is  an  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest,  163. 
Taylor,  Bayard. 

Bedouin  Love  Song,  242. 

Taylor,  Jeremy. 

On  Toleration,  147. 

Tennyson,  Alfred. 

Break,  Break,  Break,  131. 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  281. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  139. 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells,  342. 

The  Brook,  134. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year,  108. 

The  Eagle,  90. 

The  May  Queen,  112. 

What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say  ? 209. 
“Texas  Siftings.” 

The  Drummer,  338. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace. 

Sorrows  of  Werther.  205. 

Thomas,  G.  W. 

Little  Nan,  366. 

Thomson. 

Who  Can  Paint  Like  Nature,  41. 
Thorpe,  Rose  Hartwick. 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-Night,  174. 


Tilton,  Theodore. 

Baby  Bye,  336. 

The  Great  Bell  Roland,  372. 

Timrod,  Henry. 

A Common  Thought,  53. 

Hark  to  the  Shouting  Wind,  68. 

Toplady,  A.  M. 

Rock  of  Ages,  38. 

Trowbridge,  J.  T. 

The  Vagabonds,  102. 

Ward,  Artemus. 

The  Shakers,  32 7. 

Woman’s  Rights,  334. 

Washington,  George. 

The  Brotherhood  of  Man,  214. 

Watson,  James. 

Beautiful  Snow,  78. 

Webster,  Daniel. 

Crime  Revealed  by  Conscience,  16& 
Nature  of  True  Eloquence,  196. 

Welby,  Amelia  B. 

Twilight  at  Sea,  44. 

Whitney,  Adeline  D.  T. 

Their  Angels,  289. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 

Maud  Muller,  88. 

Thy  Will  Be  Done,  97. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker. 

The  Maiden’s  Prayer,  70. 

Wolcott,  Dr.  John. 

The  Razor  Seller,  331. 

Wolff,  Charles. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  134. 
Woodworth,  Samuel. 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,  75. 

Wrighton,  W.  S. 

The  Dearest  Spot  on  Earth  is  Hon*,  I7£. 


Yates,  John  H. 

The  Model  Church,  370. 

The  Old  Ways  and  the  New,  365. 
Young,  Edward. 

“ Night  Thoughts,”  180. 


I ggjt,  'v-  ; • 

: 

jkf  X.jre«^  Wgf  ,.  *5£® 


